


Impulse

by Avelyst



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fluff, Identity Reveal, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 79,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelyst/pseuds/Avelyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a cold, snowy night in Marinette's room, the last thing either hero expects is what it leads to. Things can only get more complicated from here.</p><p>- In which oblivious partners become unlikely friends, and then accomplices, and then much more. -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the wonderful characters in that universe.
> 
> But _all_ of this writing **is** mine.

Marinette likes the winter. 

She likes the warm apparel, the foggy windows, the snow piled high in the streets. She likes to curl up in her blankets, sketching designs as the snow falls. And on particularly cold days, she likes watching the steam curl up from a fresh mug of hot chocolate, specially prepared by her father.

But even as someone that doesn’t mind the cold so much, there are some things Marinette just doesn’t like about the season. 

One of them is roaming the rooftops of Paris in spandex, when the temperature rivals the freezer in her parents’ bakery. And on a night like this – when her nose is pink and her face is nearly numb from the wind’s bite – she is reminded that, while she thoroughly loves this season, it is certainly not her favorite.

Marinette breathes into her cupped hands, shivering under the breathable material of her suit. She’ll have to look into finding fabric for a coat that will fit well over the transformation.

It’s been a long night. She didn’t want to patrol at all, originally. But lately there have been several akumas, and the crime rate has spiked exceptionally. The colder it gets, the more desperate people become – and standing on a ledge, overlooking the city lights and thick sheets of snow, Marinette can almost see why.

She imagines her bed, and the thick, cozy blankets waiting for her there. Just the image of it is enough to make her ache – or, that could also be the frostbite in her fingertips.

As she contemplates, Chat slips up behind her, nearly undetected. Nearly, because the crunch of snow gives him away.

“You look a little _under the weather_ , My Lady.”

Marinette cradles her elbows, rubbing heat into them as she turns to meet Chat’s gaze. Her lips press into a thin line, and she dismisses his playful grin entirely.

“We should call it a night, I think. There will be a storm moving in,” she says, trembling.

His lips curve devilishly as he notes her shuddering and the clatter of her teeth.

“If you’re looking to warm up, I’m always at your dis-paw-sal.” 

Marinette shakes her head, turning her gaze toward the streets below so he won’t see her amused smile. His cheeky tone doesn’t mask the shiver the travels down his spine, and she imagines that he’s also probably colder than he lets on. Cats aren’t fond of the cold, and she’s fairly certain his suit is just as thin as hers.

“Go home, Chat. We’ll reschedule the patrol for a different night.”

He looks ready to protest, but she’s too impatient for his bravado or flirting, and she’s already hooking her yoyo onto a chimney in the distance, lunging off the roof.  
She dashes across the buildings, leaping through the cold night toward the bakery. When she looks back over her shoulder, he’s already gone. 

Good. Maybe the silly cat will be sensible.

**_______________________________________________**

 

Chat is not sensible. 

He knows it’s cold. He can’t feel his face, or the snow that catches in his lashes and clings to his hair. But he doesn’t want to go home – not after the afternoon he spent grueling over studies for a Chinese exam and sheet music for his piano lessons. Nathalie had slapped a whole stack of it on his desk before exiting his room briskly, pulling the door shut behind her. And being the dutiful son he was, he’d gone over all of it.

It was all he could do not to transform and jump out the window before nightfall, before the actual patrol was scheduled. Sitting there, bent over the papers with heavy eyes, all he longed for was Chat Noir’s freedom.  
Now he has it, and an impending winter storm isn’t going to take it away.

His mind wanders, and he recalls Ladybug’s cool, level gaze. The pink splotched across her face, pooling in her cheeks and collecting in the tip of her nose. The shake of her head at his joking tone, the small smile that threatened to curve her lips. 

He wonders what she does when she goes home – when the cold closes in and she’s resigned to the confines of her house. 

It’s probably warm, wherever she is. Saturated with her scent, undoubtedly. 

Chat has to stop himself. The path those thoughts follow is a dangerous one to tread, and he’s worn his way through it so many times, he’s well-aware what lies at the end.

When he looks up, he recognizes his surroundings immediately. He’s circled this part of the city a few times in the span of an hour, his hair whipped back and tipped with frost, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides to urge heat into his fingers. He can make out the outline of the school, illuminated from the streetlights. A sign hangs over the bakery across the street from it, the light dim but familiar.

If he passes the bakery during the day, he can usually smell the baking bread, the fresh aroma of cookies and pastries. But at this time of night, he can’t smell anything.

After a few seconds, his eyes settle on the balcony.

Marinette’s balcony.

He wonders what she is doing right now; probably holed up and attempting to keep warm – the second sensible girl he’s run across tonight.

After a few seconds of contemplation – and another chilling breeze in his hair – he shoots across, landing on the uneven shingles of the neighboring roof. Chat scales the side of the bakery, clawing his way over the railing of the balcony.  
The plants are withered and dead, caked with snow and buried beneath the weight of it. He can see distinct footprints in the packed ivory, much smaller than his own, leading to a trap door that has been cleared.

Chat shakes the snow out of his hair, a shiver running across his limbs as a gust of wind hits his neck. The wind picks up, and he sways on his feet, struggling to suck in an icy breath. It’s a reminder of Ladybug’s warning about oncoming weather, and Adrien chastises himself for being reckless and ignoring it.

He tries to recall what he knows of Marinette. She’s shy and reserved, easily flustered and possibly clumsy. She’s hardly spoken a word to him without stumbling over herself, and she is fairly withdrawn from anyone aside from Alya.  
No, that’s not entirely true. He remembers her run for class president, and her straight-forward confrontations with Chloe. In the past she’s been indifferent toward Chat, with a considerable amount of spice in her personality once the two of them spent more time together – albeit, as brief as it was. 

So, there must be something more there, underneath the timid blue eyes and embarrassed smile. 

Chat kneels next to the trap door, swiping at the fogged glass to glimpse into the room below. She might be asleep, and if she is, he doesn’t want to disturb her. 

Warm light splashes onto her desk from a lamp, illuminating an array of sketches. Various designs are outlined in charcoal and colored pencil, a sketchbook open and forgotten underneath one of Marinette’s hands. Her hair spills over her slouched shoulders like dark ink, released from her usual pigtails. Her lashes cast dark shadows over her cheeks, lips parted in unconsciousness. It takes him a moment to recognize her lovely features, under the unusual lighting and without her signature hairstyle.

Someone has draped a blanket over her back, and a cooling cup of hot chocolate sits on her desk, nearly empty.

Chat crouches next to the trap door, uncertainty flashing through him. She looks so comfortable and cozy; the sight causes his numb hands to ache, down to the bone.

Ultimately it’s the wind, pressing and relentless, that urges Chat to drop down from the balcony and round the corner of the building – to her window.

He peers into her room, revealed in a new light from this angle. He can see her slumped form from here, warm and inviting. Chat raps on the glass, his luminescent, green eyes darting from her desk to the little door in her floor. Hopefully he won’t be alerting anyone else in the house to his presence.

He can only imagine her father’s reaction if he saw a strange, masked boy outside her window, lurking out in the cold. The thought is almost more intimidating than a possible akuma attack.

As though sensing his presence, Marinette startles, several papers fluttering from the desk onto the floor. He’s barely tapped on the glass again, and her eyes drift to the window, bleary and disoriented.

They stare at one another for several seconds as she seems to collect herself, registering the sight of him. The recognition surfaces in the furrow of her brow, her blue eyes rounding. Chat grins broadly as she pushes back out of her chair, crossing to the window.

Marinette fixes him with guarded eyes as she unlatches it, shoving it open. A rush of warm air tickles his face, and he unconsciously leans into it.

“Chat Noir?” she sighs groggily, rubbing her eyes.

“Were you expecting someone else?” 

His smile is impish – daring.

Her pajamas look flannel, the top button open to glimpse a soft collarbone. A tinge of pink warms her face, undeniably inviting to a shivering cat, grasping anxiously at her window frame with frigid claws.  
Marinette’s hands fall away, and frustration flickers in her tired gaze. She seems to bridle it, schooling her features into nonchalance. The display of expression in that one moment is more than he’s experienced from her in over a month of fumbling for conversation as Adrien. 

“I wasn't expecting anyone. Do you have any idea what time it is?” she asks sharply.

Chat digs his digits into the structure, shifting his weight. Puffs of hot breath steam from his lips, curling into the air before dissipating between them. Marinette stares at him pointedly, unfazed by his visible shuddering.

“A hero’s responsibilities are never off the clock,” he quips.

She frowns at him, and his eyes follow the movement. The downturn of her lips, the slight knit of her brow. Her hair is disheveled from her nap, the impression of lines from notebook paper on her right cheek. And despite the button-down pajamas, she still manages to look resolute. 

“I was patrolling,” he admits finally, “I was lost in thought, and it grew cold. When I saw the light from your window, I thought…”

The last part isn’t entirely a lie, he reasons. Her gaze is unwavering, but he can see the gears turning behind it.

“You thought you’d just come scratching at the door, and I’d let you in.” she says plainly.

“A storm is coming,” he adds.

He can’t read her expression, but he can see the way something shifts in her features. There’s a part of her he’s rarely seen – the part that thinks practically and evaluates a situation.

When she lets out a sigh, her fingers hooking in his collar – dragging him in over the threshold with surprising strength – he can sense the resolution there. A satisfied smile flits across his face at her consent.

**_______________________________________________**

 

Marinette has never considered herself a cat person.

She’s not especially fond of their self-entitled attitude, or their demanding need for attention. As she sits at her desk, her chair swiveled to face the boy perched on her chaise lounge, she’s reminded of the most distasteful similarities between her partner and the real animal.

Chat stretches out over the piece of furniture, rubbing his face into a pillow. He looks absolutely content, the dark flush in his cheeks receding as he acclimates to the temperature of the room.

The frost in his hair and on his suit melts, and she chastises him lightly for getting her things wet. But her irritation ebbs as she watches him stretch out, his chest rumbling with delighted purrs as he sinks into the cushion.

Marinette collects the papers from the floor to busy herself, arranging them into a neat stack. It’s quiet in the bedroom, snow falling hard and fast outside, a hushed consistency. The only sound between them is her quick, nervous breaths, and the deep vibration in Chat’s throat. She fingers a loose thread on her leg, suddenly self-conscious. 

She’s comfortable with Chat – she _knows_ Chat. 

It’s not the first time she’s been unmasked with him, and it’s not like he seems to suspect anything. But this is the first time she’s been alone with him – really alone with him – as herself, and not Ladybug, with no civilian eyes or meticulously aimed lens to follow. 

Chat holds no affection for Marinette – it’s Ladybug that he’s infatuated with. So she really has nothing to fret over. 

And yet.

Those thoughts, those inward reassurances, do nothing to snuff the anxiety in her stomach from the proximity.

“I’m sure a very busy hero like yourself has important things to do,” she says in an even voice, “So whenever you’re feeling better, feel free to let yourself out.”

She tries to sound light, casual. But there’s a quiver in her voice, and she prays he doesn’t notice.

A pair of bright eyes consider her from beneath the pillow, slit with leisure.

“Are you so eager to be rid of me, Princess?”

“Oh, no! Of course not. But I’m sure Ladybug would worry about you,” she clears her throat, adding, “And my parents have a strict no-pet policy since we live above a bakery.”

A chuckle escapes Chat. The sound is low and warm, like the shift of sheets on skin. Instead of answering, she can see his gaze flit over her head, examining something on the wall behind her. After a few beats, he sits up on the chaise, and there’s something in his eyes. It races across his expression fleetingly – surprise, interest, and then genuine amusement. It unnerves her, the way the corners of his mouth lift.

“You’re a big fan of fashion…or one model in particular?”

Comprehension splutters through her, and Marinette’s face flushes. She twists around, eyes widening, her ears growing impossibly warm. Posters, magazine clippings, and various illustrations of Adrien Agreste adorn her wall, littering every open space that’s not occupied by her own designs. The meager light from her lamp casts shadows over the room, but it escaped her that Chat can see in the dark. Embarrassment crawls up her neck, blooming in her cheeks as she averts her eyes, pretending at indifference. She can feel Chat’s piercing gaze, settled on the back of her head as she glances guiltily toward the framed picture of Adrien on her desk.

“I’m a fan of Gabriel Agreste’s work,” she says feebly.

“And of his son.”

There’s that smirk. She can hear it in his voice.

“He’s a talented model,” she argues.

But there’s no denying the stutter that threatens to disable her explanations, or the darkening blush that pools in her face. And it too late, because Chat has already taken notice, and she can feel his attention on her. She expects him to tease, to haggle her for her juvenile crush.

Instead, there’s an underlying range of emotions that play out behind the eyeholes of his mask, and Marinette looks over her shoulder at him, pausing as she notices it. She’s barely recognized the uncertainty, the indecision in his eyes, before he’s risen to his feet, rocking back on his heels.

The energetic surety of his posture returns in that split second.

“It’s late for a school night,” he circles around her room, curiously inspecting the things on her dresser, “What are _you_ doing up at this hour?”

Marinette turns back to her desk, tracing the outline of her latest work with gentle fingertips. Her eyes roam the discarded pencils and tools, the shavings and pieces of lead strewn across the surface. She really gets engrossed once a design sets into her mind.

The moment she returned from the patrol, she had enough time to let the transformation drop and settle down at her desk, before the papers in front of her started to become hazy. Between half-conscious sketching and dim lighting, she can’t remember when she drifted off. 

“I’ve been working on a project,” she answers vaguely.

She’s hardly aware of his presence over her shoulder, the inquisitive eyes that sweep over the sketches under her hands, until she feels his breath stirring her hair. 

“You’re very skilled,” he says.

His voice is silky and quiet, interest lacing his tone. He shifts behind her, his hand crossing over her shoulder to touch one of the drawings. Marinette grows still.

“This one – the lace is detailed. Delicate work, but it complements the neckline nicely.”

There’s a scent on his suit, on his hair as he leans over her. Has he always smelled like this? The cologne is familiar, but she can’t place it, and it’s unbearably distracting as his fingertip traces the drawing. Marinette’s eyes fall closed as she breathes it in, her head growing light. It could be that she’s still tired, still half-awake, and the light from the lamp is pleasant and homely…

“-mind, Princess?”

Her eyes snap open, “What?”

“Is there something else on your mind, Princess?” 

There’s that amusement from before, rolling off of him as he laughs quietly. Marinette’s face burns.

“You know a lot about fashion,” she points out, “For a cat.”

Chat hums low in his throat, and the sound is almost as hypnotizing as his scent.

“A coat is only as good as its grooming,” he says.

“Going by how cold and miserable you looked out there, your grooming must be sub-par,” she sniffs – and a waft of that sweet, musky smell assaults her senses.

The glee doesn’t leave his tone, and she’s starting to think he’s enjoying this. 

“The whole point of spandex is that it’s flexible and breathable. If I wore a coat, it would only be a restraint during a fight.”

His hands find her shoulders, and her stomach dips at the unexpected touch. The chair swivels, and Marinette’s breath hitches uncertainly as she’s pulled around to face him. Chat leans into the space between them, palms resting on the back of her chair, his presence caging her in. An unfamiliar heat wedges in her abdomen as he eyes draw over her.

“Does my princess really think my grooming in sub-par?”

His pupils are blown, set against a vibrant shade of emerald. In the shadows of her bedroom they are incredibly bright, flecks of yellow and vivacious green, smoldering from behind the confines of the mask. She can’t remember his gaze being this intense before – or a time where she would have ever used the word ‘mesmerizing’ to describe any part of Chat.

“I’m not _your_ princess,” she says softly.

The vivid, cat-like orbs crinkle as he smiles.

“Ah, yes. You already have a prince.”

His attention darts to the picture frame behind her, and she bristles at the hilarity in his tone. He’s entertained by this – by the childish notion of her interest in a boy. In someone unattainable. His ability to flip between being flirtatious and taunting is striking.

Who is he to joke about impossible relationships? Just over an hour before, he’d been practically fawning over Ladybug.

Marinette hackles with annoyance, her cheeks puffing indignantly.

“Better a prince than a pushy stray.”

The smirk slides from his lips, his expression hardening unexpectedly. He considers her carefully for a moment, as though deliberating.

“And what if your prince were a frog, hm? What then?”

Marinette’s heart lurches as he bows toward her, the cool tips of his hair grazing her cheeks.

“Would you still kiss a frog?”

This close, she can’t escape his scent, or the burn in his eyes. She’s still upset, still frustrated, she reminds herself desperately. 

“At the end of the day,” she breathes, “A frog is still a prince underneath.”

Their noses almost touch, and Marinette can feel his breath on her face. She’s sucked into the unyielding slant of his eyes, the sharp curve of his jaw as it works. 

When Chat breaks away, his hands falling from the chair, her heart is thrumming. Marinette watches him move to the ladder, climbing to the secluded nook where her bed is tucked away.  
Frantic thoughts race across her mind, panic lodging in her throat. Countless scenarios surface in her imagination, unbidden and each one more ludicrous than the last.

“Wha- Where are you g-going?” 

Chat peeks over the edge of the loft, his eyebrows raised.

“To take a nap – unless you have a better way to pass the time?”

Marinette reddens, glancing toward the window. The snow is still falling, and so is her sensibility.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once you feed a stray cat, they'll keep coming back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sin alert.
> 
> Leave now or forever hold your peace.

The forecast predicts four to five inches of snowfall, and that’s excluding the ice that is sure to come. 

Here, in Marinette’s room, Chat is warm – tucked away from the raging flurry outside. Her blankets are soft and inviting, a sweet hint of vanilla worn into the fabric. Adrien nuzzles into them, content pressing low in his belly.

“If you don’t stop it, my bed is going to smell like wet cat.”

His eyes slit open, twin orbs of lethargic green. It’s so unbearably comfortable here, roosted against her over-sized cat pillow. 

Marinette crawls over the ladder and onto her bed, balancing two hot bowls precariously. The fact that she managed to climb up the steps without spilling them is remarkable, and Chat sits up as he catches a trace of the delicious aroma.

“I didn’t know how you liked it, so I improvised,” she hands him as small bowl, “Yours has more milk.”

Chat stares at the creamy contents, his ears perking.

“ _Chocolat chaud_?” he remarks curiously.

Marinette folds her legs, hands cradling her own drink as she looks up at him. She blows gently, taking a hesitant sip.

“My parents always taught me that when you host someone, you should make sure their stomach is never left empty,” she’s amused by his visible delight, “I thought, since you’ll be here for a little bit, I might as well get you something.”

The taste is sweet on his tongue, perfectly temperate. There’s a hint of something else – nutmeg? Nathalie, or the cooks on hand, will prepare hot chocolate for him when he asks for it. But it’s never like this.

“This is wonderful, Princess.”

Marinette sighs, “There’s that nickname again.”

Chat draws deeply from his bowl, nearly half-done already. It settles in his stomach, light and frothy – warming him from the inside out. He considers her over the rim, the subtle pink in her cheeks and the dark, disheveled hair.

“Is there something that is more fitting?”

Marinette rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. Chat is heartened by it, and he lowers his bowl, vaguely curious.

She likes Adrien. Or, at the very least, she finds him attractive. 

Up until recently, it had escaped him how beautiful Marinette actually was. He was too preoccupied with his modeling, his piano lessons, his fencing, and the extracurricular activities. Being a perfect son, an ideal image of Gabriel Agreste’s legacy, was too demanding. The only person from school he was able to truly make time for was Nino, and with his secret life as Chat Noir, even that could become strenuous.

Somehow she’d become part of the backdrop – the people and places that Adrien barely registered as he tried to plow through his father’s rigorous scheduling. 

But here she is. Pale blue eyes and rumpled pajamas, slender fingers curled around porcelain, her small feet tucked under her. There’s something about Marinette’s presence, her house – even her scent – that puts him at ease. Sitting here with her like this, watching her fight a smile and redirect her attention to the bowl between her hands, feels proverbial.

He can’t put his finger on it.

“Lovely?” he whispers.

Her azure gaze flits up to his face, and several seconds pass, her mouth pausing over the lip of her bowl. 

Chat leans forward a fraction, and he can see the tentative press of her lips. But she doesn’t rebut or chastise him, and it spurs him on.

“Little dove?”

He lifts a hand, his thumb ghosting the curve of her knuckles, pale from her firm grip on the bowl. She’s very still, and the image of a rabbit comes to him – small and uncertain, frozen in place as the predator circles it. 

“Marinette,” he murmurs.

He never noticed it before – the bow of her lips, soft and alluring. The delicate line of her throat as it disappears beneath the collar of her shirt. Her skin looks soft, brushed with a delectable shade of pink. 

Chat is still leaning toward her, the space closing between them. He’s not even sure what he’s doing, or where the force pulling him is coming from.

“Chat?”

Her voice is hushed, an intriguing lilt that draws his eyes to her mouth. 

“Yes?”

One of her hands comes up to his chest, a gentle pressure. He can feel her small palm, warm against the thin material of his suit. 

“You spilled your hot chocolate.”

He starts, surprise sidling through him as he looks down at his lap. Hot liquid stains Marinette’s sheets, the overturned bowl resting against his wet thigh. Chat swallows thickly.

Marinette laughs as he fumbles for her sheets, bunching them up, lifting the bowl in his other hand. She shakes her head, but there’s a smile playing on her lips.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have drinks on the bed. I don’t want to get my sheets dirty,” she observes.

Chat’s eyes glitter, but before he can say anything, she cuts him off.

“I don’t want to clean up any _spills_.”

His gaze follows her as she scoots off the bed, shimmying down the ladder with more poise than he can expect from someone balancing dishes. Chat hops down from the loft, the messy fabric in one hand.

“This is why I don’t let pets on my bed,” she says.

His voice is mischievous, “I’m your pet now?”

Marinette shoots him a pointed look, setting the bowls down on her desk.

He dabs at his damp legs with the sheets, frowning at the spreading blot on the fabric.

“This might stain,” he says.

“The sheets? Maybe.” she concedes.

Chat glances up at her. Marinette bends over her vanity table, wetting what looks like cloth. His attention lingers on the slender line of her back, the delicate curve of her waist under the pajamas. His eyes snap up as she turns around. When she approaches him, she exchanges the wet rag for the sheets.

“For your suit,” she clarifies.

Her eyes are big, fringed with dark lashes. The pale blue is amplified by his night vision, and Chat averts his attention to the rag in his hand. 

The young hero sinks down onto the furniture. He bows over his lap to scrub at the spreading splotch as her lithe figure crosses back to the loft, retrieving blankets from her bed. Marinette plants herself in front of him with an armful of coverlets, peering over them at his mop of blond hair.

“If these aren’t warm enough, please tell me. I can get more from downstairs.”

Adrien’s hand pauses, his eyes lifting to the blankets. He stares at her blankly, looking from her face to the fabric, then back again. 

“You can sleep on the chaise,” Marinette offers quietly.

It takes a moment for the recognition to set in, and then pleasure tugs at the corner of his mouth, spreading across his features. She shakes her head, throwing the armful at his head. Chat chortles, batting away the material. When his face emerges, a plush mouthful of pillow thwacks him square in the nose. 

“Get that smirk off your face!” she says shortly.

“What smirk?” he laughs.

Marinette props the pillow back over her shoulder, her stance ready for another swing.

“The one you wear when you think you’ve got your way.”

Chat can’t help it. The temptation to tease her is intolerable. He’s enticed in the promise of gracing her cheeks with another obstinate blush, in discovering what other reactions he can provoke out of her. He wants to know what other sides there are to the sweet, shy Marinette.

If she wants to play this game, he’s more than willing to rise to the challenge.

“Whatever could you me-”

She lets out a frustrated sound, and he can just barely see the way she screws up her nose as the pillow connects with his cheek.

“You’re doing it again!”

He throws up his hands, warding off another wallop from her plump weapon.

“My Princess lacks propriety, attacking an unarmed man!”

He faintly registers something soft bounce off his shoulder. Chat seizes it, a thrill jolting through him. He’s on his feet in seconds, Marinette letting out a shriek as he swats at her.

He ducks under her throw, and the boy lunges at her, striking at her ribs. Marinette dances out of his reach, and he laughs gleefully. She’s unexpectedly nimble for a seamstress.

“Get back here!” he growls.

She dodges his outstretched hand, and Chat lets out an ‘oomph’ as her pillow arcs around, socking him in the head. He leaps for an opening, retaliating with a hard slug to the hip. The sound of muffled thumps and smacks fill the cozy room.  
They continue like this, Marinette laughing openly after several minutes of the playful antics. He can see the flush in her cheeks, the lively glimmer in her expression – and a thought occurs to him.

He expects the noise of disapproval, the disgruntled huff when the only source of light goes out. What he doesn’t expect is how satisfying it is to see the unguarded pout on her face.

“That’s playing dirty, you dumb cat.”

Chat can barely contain the triumphant grin on his face – thankfully she can’t see it, or she’d probably threaten to whack it off. 

“All is fair in love and war,” he purrs.

_But which one is **this**?_

Marinette grumbles, tensing visibly when she hears the direction of his voice. He can see her head incline, eyes searching the darkness.

The only remaining light ghosts over the floor, pale from the window. Speckled shadows fall soundlessly, snowflakes that kiss the glass and cling to the pane. It’s not enough to see by, but it quiets the atmosphere.

Chat circles her, his interest following the curve of her arm, the edge in her voice. 

“Don’t even thi-”

She shrieks as they collide, Chat’s lithe body arching over her as he wrestles the pillow out of her hands. She grips onto it desperately, a tenacious smile curling her lips. It slides off her face when Chat digs his hands into her sides, issuing reluctant giggles through her petite frame. Marinette squirms under him, uninhibited laughter bubbling out of her, and the pillow is abandoned, her cheeks flushing darkly.

Her mirth is contagious, and Chat snorts as she howls under him, batting at his hands.

“P-please!”

Tickling someone has never been so enjoyable.

“Please what?”

Her eyes well, and her stomach shakes as she tries to gasp for air.

“Sto- _ahhhh!_ ”

There’s something addicting about the way she writhes under him, a plea on her lips. 

Chat stills, his palms pressing into the dip of her waist. Her top has ridden up, and the heated, soft skin of her stomach is exposed to his sharp gaze. Marinette’s chest rises and falls rapidly, ragged breaths tearing through her as she attempts settle down from the hysterics. 

His heart skips unevenly, taking in her rumpled appearance. Blue-black hair pools around her head, a lopsided grin on her face. If he knew that this was the way to unwind her, he would have done it far sooner.

“Marinette?”

A curious, concerned voice reaches up through the trap door in the floor. Chat tenses against her, panic arresting him. Marinette bolts up, nearly head-butting the boy. A look of alarm passes over her features, and Chat swallows thickly at the abrupt proximity – despite the situation at hand.

“Oh no,” she hisses.

“Are you alright up there, sweetheart?” her mother inquires.

Marinette shoves at him, and he falls back, eyes rounding.

“Hide!” she whispers fiercely.

Chat scrambles onto his feet, making a dash for her loft. 

“What are you doing?” she demands, her voice shrill.

She races behind him, fumbling up the steps as he dives under her blankets. 

His voice is muffled, “ _Hiding!_ ”

The ladder beneath her room creaks, flooding them both with dread. Marinette throws a cover over her head, burying deep into the mattress as her mother unlatches the door.

Silence.

Her breath puffs against his throat, stirring on his skin. Chat lays very still, his eyes unfocused. Her hair tickles his cheek, soft and tousled, and his attention is torn between the girl nestled against him and the fear of discovery. 

Chat's heart hammers against his ribs, hands clenched at his sides. He studies the Cheshire grin on her cat pillow, resenting it for the permanent delight on its face. 

Absently he imagines the variety of ways her parents could skin a cat.

Chat doesn’t hear the click. It feels as though several minutes have passed, but it could only have been seconds. He feels Marinette’s hand on his arm, her voice against his chin. She says his name softly, nudging him.

“She’s gone.”

Adrien lets out a sigh, relaxing into the bed. 

“That could have been _cat_ astrophic.”

“Don’t make me hit you,” she warns halfheartedly.

His smile dimples. Chat’s heart has barely settled into a steady rhythm when he feels her shift against him. Their legs touch, her knee grazing along his thigh. This entire night is unraveling his self-restraint.

“So,” he teases gently, averting his attention to playful banter, “You seemed very eager to get into bed with me.”

An obstinate, stuttering protest follows, and he imagines the look on her face. The way her nose might wrinkle, her eyes growing wide as she bites down on a flustered retort. He enjoys this instigation – eliciting reactions and expressions that he wouldn’t otherwise glimpse as Adrien.

Chat’s stomach knots anxiously.

He loves Ladybug. 

He’s always loved Ladybug. He loves her surety, her fearlessness, her undefined bravery. He loves her determination, the way her eyes light up, the smile that splits across her face when they win a battle. The way she says his name – exasperated, relieved, amused. All of the luck he could possibly have in his lifetime was concentrated when he met her.

She is the star he can’t reach, the drug he withdraws from, the rain in his drought.

She is his Lady. 

Adrien knows this. He knows this with a conviction that leaves him breathless; he’s never been so sure of anything in his life. 

Marinette is his classmate – his friend. 

A lovely, fascinating friend that he makes weak, rash decisions around and is irrevocably drawn to.

_That’s it_ , he promises himself.

“Will your transformation drop?” she whispers.

He slips from his musings, “Hm? Oh...no.”

Marinette wriggles slightly, and Chat desperately clamps down on his thoughts.

_Think of Nino’s collection of hats. Plagg’s smelly cheese. Father._

“You better keep your paws to yourself,” Marinette mumbles.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I’m not _feline frisky_.”

She exhales slowly, an exasperated noise.

There’s frustration there, and a smile he can’t see – and that’s probably why Chat is so taken aback when her hand slips over his shoulder and drifts to his hair. She laces her fingers through the soft strands at the nape of his neck, tugging gently. Surprise escapes his lips, catching in the back of his throat and rumbling through his chest. 

The reaction is instantaneous. He leans into her touch, his purr low and gravelly.

“Silly cat.”

Her voice is hushed, astonishingly tender. Marinette’s fingertips are tantalizing, combing through the tresses and grazing against his scalp. His breath hitches, hands fisting in the blanket. Has she always had this skill?

“If you’ll behave yourself,” she murmurs, “I’ll let you stay.”

Chat groans lowly, eyes falling shut. He arches into her touch, releasing an approving mewl as her delicious fingers begin to rub slow, agonizing circles. At his temple, behind his ear, into the grove of his neck.

He nuzzles into her cheek, and Marinette’s voice is at the shell of his ear, tracing a heated path down his spine.

“But only for a little while.”

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care how long he has – for the storm, for his transformation, or here with her. It’s immoral and demented. She’s not his lady – not even a girl he’s given the time of day until now. But she’s Marinette. Kind, nurturing, talented, funny, sweet Marinette.

And right now, whatever she’s willing to give him is what he’s willing to take. 

He rasps against the line of her jaw, and there’s a sweet intake of breath – a near gasp. The sound coils in Adrien’s abdomen, hot and promising. 

The slope of her nose grazes his, and his stomach clenches with something foreign, something laced with irrefutable need. Chat’s lips press to the soft tip of it.  
Both hands are in his hair, but instead of tugging him away, they’re threading through and dragging him in. 

There's hesitation, and his pulse throbs in his ears, her lashes fluttering against his cheek. And when her soft lips slant over his, Adrien has one last, clear thought.

_‘That’s it’ my ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chocolat Chaud_ is actually French hot chocolate - and while I've never tried it, I've heard it's delicious.
> 
> I'm going with the knowledge that unless Chat uses Cataclysm, he can remain in that form for as long as Plagg allows it.  
> I may or may not be alternating between perspectives in oncoming chapters. In many cases, it feels necessary for plot progression.
> 
> Don't worry - this is going to be a slow burn. Is it a little fast right now? Oh, yes. But we'll be pulling the breaks soon, children.
> 
> That said, is this going to get more sinful as it goes on? ... _maybe_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Marinette can't deal and Alya is a top-notch wingman._

The first kiss with Chat was abrupt and desperate, an occurrence that she had been eager to dismiss. She was glad that he couldn't remember it – couldn't take it as anything but the necessity that it was.

But this is different.

The second kiss is slow and tender, unintentional and magnetic. It's not the deliberate, dutiful smash of lips together, and it's entirely unnecessary.

He presses into her, one hand clutching at the soft flannel of her pajamas. She can taste chocolate, sweet and intoxicating on her tongue. His mask is cool and exhilarating against her face, and his claws drag out her inhibitions as they rake down the small of her back.

Somewhere in the back of her mind is an insistent voice, grasping at her scattered thoughts. It reprimands her, reminding her of the walls she's carefully placed between herself and Chat up until now.

This isn't something she can pretend didn't happen, or play at indifference over. She was the one that pulled him in – that made the irresponsible, spur-of-the-moment decision.

As Ladybug, the eyes of the world rest on her, and she shoulders the fate of France. She has to be the level-headed voice of reason, the one that has the solution to everything. If they only knew the girl they idolized and turned to for answers was a young, incapable teenager, they might not be so quick to thrust their lives into her hands.  
Marinette is not strong and confident. She's just a girl that lives above a bakery and sketches clothes in her free time – a girl that is more often shy than assertive. The fact that Tikki chose her at all often weighs heavily on her mind.

With Chat, here in her room, there are no responsibilities. Right now, he isn't looking at her with the stars in his eyes, with high expectations and demands. Ladybug keeps him at an arm's-length – but that doesn't mean Marinette has to.

But she knows she _should_.

This isn't real. Chat's in love with Ladybug – not her. He's in love with the sweetheart of Paris, the one that can say and do the right thing regardless of personal ties.

Marinette clutches at his arms, and Chat breaks away for a desperate gasp of air. He draws in a shuddering breath, one hand fisted in the material of her shirt, the other in her hair. And for one brief, lucid second, her head swims, and the voice of warning seizes the opportunity to slip through.

_Adrien_.

She wrenches away, pushing herself up.

She feels his hands fall away, his body tense. The quiet, cozy atmosphere drains away, replaced by uncertainty.

Marinette pulls her knees up to her chin, winding her arms around them. She presses her forehead to the soft fabric, pulling in a deep breath to clear her head.

"We shouldn't be doing this."

Chat is very still.

"Did I-?"

"You love Ladybug," she says firmly.

There's a beat of silence, but he doesn't dispute it. She swallows thickly, latching onto that confirmation.

_He loves Ladybug. You're just a silly girl to him – that's it._

Her head is reeling.

That was a stupid, ridiculous thing to do. Ladybug keeps her professional and personal lives separate. Chat is her partner, her closest confidant aside from Alya.

He's silly and reckless, unmanageable and charming. He's Ladybug's other half – not hers.

And it **must** stay that way.

His fingertips brush her wrist, hesitant and gentle.

"I like someone else," she breathes.

Her voice is soft, barely audible, but it's enough. His touch withdraws, and she's glad for it.

"Your prince," he says.

Marinette nods.

There's an intake of breath, and the fabric shifts next to her. For once, whatever he's thinking stays behind the mask.

He slips down the ladder wordlessly, and she remains still, pressing her face into her legs. She doesn't want him to see the guilt, or the regret. She can hear him ruffling the blankets and tossing the pillows back onto the chaise.

She wants to apologize, to tell him… _something_. But the words catch in her throat, and Marinette can barely manage an unsteady breath, let alone an admission of guilt. To apologize would mean to admit to her regret, to her weakness.

It's very quiet for several minutes, and Marinette can hear the muted whir of her computer below, the unsteady tick of her pulse.

Her eyes are heavy, and she knows that it's late – possibly even the ghostly hours of the morning. There's a good chance that if she falls asleep now, Chat could be gone before she wakes up. And then this will all pass, be another silly dream that she can discard and scoff at.

She sinks down into her pillow, her heart slowing. Cocooned in this little room, a creeping chill pressing in from outside, it's easy to imagine it as a hallucination – a ridiculous spout of unconsciousness, and not the authentic blunder that it was. Vaguely, under the webs of sleep that thread through her head, she thinks she can hear his voice, soft and low.

"Better a prince than a pushy stray."

**_______________________________________________**

When Marinette wakes, Chat is gone.

The chaise is bare, no blankets or pillows in sight. A flood of relief rushes over her, and she's overwhelmed by the force of it.

She dresses in a rush, her head light. She's already reaching for her phone to text Alya when her hand pauses, hovering over the desk.

The blankets are folded neatly, a little post-it tacked to them. Chat's initials stands out in sharp, dark lettering, blotting out her previous elation. She can barely comprehend the rest of the message as her eyes skim over it.

**Thank you for your hospitality.**

**– C. N.**

**P.S. Any guy who overlooks you must be a _royal_ pain. :3**

Marinette picks up the little piece of paper with trembling fingers, her heart heavy despite the note's light tone.

It wasn't a dream.

**_______________________________________________**

"Girl, you've been out of it all day."

Alya slides her bag of chips toward her friend, and Marinette shakes her head at the offer, her chin propped on one hand distractedly.

School wasn't cancelled, despite (many) protests from the students.

So, the two girls sit across from each other at Marinette's house, settled in the kitchen for lunch break. Sabine whipped up a hot meal for them before rushing off to help her husband fill orders in the bakery. And it left Alya the perfect opportunity to corner her friend into divulging what was on her mind.

Marinette swallows thickly.

"What do you mean?"

Her friend shoots her an incredulous look.

"Are you serious?"

Marinette purses her lips, and Alya shakes her head, plowing on.

"Okay, how about the way you've been acting around Adrien today?"

The young hero eyes the chips, restraining a frown.

"I haven't been actin-"

"You've been avoiding him like he's the plague," Alya lifts her brows, "Nino invited us to go out with them tomorrow night and you begged me to say _no_."

Marinette shifts uncomfortably in her chair, "I haven't been avoiding him. You can't avoid someone you don't talk to on a regular basis anyway."

"He greeted you this morning and you acted like you didn't hear him," Alya points out.

Marinette studies the logo on the chip bag, her eyes following the creases and colors.

"Maybe I'm just afraid to talk to him and screw up."

Alya scrutinizes her for a moment, mulling over the statement. Her head tilts, eyes narrowed doubtfully, before she finally relaxes and takes a deep breath.

"I'll be beside you the whole time," she adds, "And if you do something stupid, I'll be right there to get it on camera."

"Alya!"

"Okay," she laughs, "Not on camera. But seriously! This is a big chance to get your feelings across to Adrien!"

Marinette sighs and leans back in her chair, contemplating.

She _has_ been avoiding Adrien.

When she walked in this morning, she was determined to put the events from the night before behind her. It wasn't as though she saw Chat as Marinette on a day-to-day basis. It was a rare occurrence - nothing to fret over.

And yet.

The moment she saw Adrien, all of her reassurances and pep-talks fell apart at the seams.  
He sat there with a polite smile, listening to Nino speak animatedly about a new show, distant interest in his green eyes.

Her mind flashed back to the night before, images and unfamiliar emotions seizing her. Chat's soft, warm lips, his hands in her hair, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her in-

She nearly bolted from the classroom.

For the rest of the day it was like that. Every single time Adrien met her eyes, or opened his mouth to direct a word or sentence toward her, she could feel the guilt gnawing at her insides.

She was enamored by Adrien – had never given a second glance to _anyone_ except him. And yet, she had let Chat, her partner and friend, see a side of her that no other person had ever glimpsed – all in the span of a few hours.  
She betrayed her feelings for Adrien, and the shame haunts her.

"So?" Alya urges.

Marinette's head snaps up, her eyes rounding.

"Hm?"

Alya fixes her with a disapproving look, "Were you listening?"

"…maybe?"

Her friend pops a chip in her mouth, crunching thoughtfully.

"Okay, so here's the deal. Tomorrow night we're going to go to the Trocadéro Gardens to ice skate."

The seamstress blanches, and Alya continues on, unfazed.

"It's a Friday night, and I'm not going to let you spend the entirety of it up in your room sketching and drinking cocoa in your pajamas all night - when you _could_ be out socializing with a cute, available boy that you've been crushing on for ages."

"I'm wasn't going t-"

Alya sniffs, "Yes, you were. Don't even try denying it."

Marinette sulks visibly, crossing her arms. Her curvy friend whips out her phone, clicking away on the keypad as she speaks.

"I'm texting Nino right now, before you can worm your way out of it."

Marinette groans, " _Alya_."

"You'll thank me later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, but it's honestly necessary.
> 
> Prepare yourselves. Things are about to get complicated for our smol children.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Adrien gets the 'cold' shoulder._

Adrien can't think straight.

His head has been a mess for the past two days – starting from the morning that he crawled out of Marinette's window.

After the intimacy they shared, a carefully constructed wall had materialized between them. It was clear that she was uncomfortable by some portion of their exchange – and after she stated the reason behind it, he couldn't find the heart to pursue it further.

She was right to push him away.

He loved Ladybug, and the rashness of the entire situation swept over him and carried him away. Her scent, her lovely features, and her soft, kind voice had enveloped his senses, drowning out his reserves. Between her wickedly tempting hands, and her tender ministrations, he had lost his head.

He had thought that seeing her at school, as Adrien, would make everything different – better.

Instead, as the students settled into their seats around him, and Nino began to ramble on about his new-found obsession, Adrien's mind wandered to her.

His eyes drifted toward the door to the classroom, unbidden – curious, anticipating.

What would she look like today?

Would there be any outward indication of their night together? Would she be early, or late?

He glimpsed her out of his peripheral vision as she slipped in. Nino's face was lit with enthusiasm as he gestured wildly, his voice drifting and growing distant. Adrien's attention was zeroed in on the petite girl that lingered at the front of the class, her posture stiff and eyes wide.  
He lifted his gaze from Nino's in-depth account of live-action animation, chancing a sidelong glance at her as she passed him on the steps.  
When their eyes met, he shot her a warm, friendly smile. Her hair was separated into the familiar twin ponytails, a stark contrast to the tousled, loose waves from the night before. He mentally shoved down the image, giving her a little wave. Marinette paled visibly, and Adrien's stomach somersaulted.

What was that?

She whipped her head toward her friend, Alya, feigning interest as though her name had been called.

The rest of the day continued in a fairly similar fashion.

Adrien was stricken with this new side of Marinette, and the new-found information. The posters on her wall, the shy admission of her infatuation with him…

_"Better a prince than a pushy stray."_

She likes Adrien. At the very least, she's interested in him. Somehow he'd been oblivious to it, for however long it had been going on. And now the awareness of it crawls over his skin, wedging between his thoughts and bleeding into his interactions with her. It pricks at the back of his mind, drawing his attention to the girl in a way he's never given thought to.

This new lens highlights every mannerism he hadn't noticed before.

She worries her lip to contain her amusement when Nino jokes casually over his shoulder with the two girls, particularly Alya, making ridiculous attempts at stirring the young reporter's sensibility. They engage in banter that carries on through the next class. Adrien meets Marinette's eyes briefly to share a knowing look, only to feel disappointment and confusion swell through him as she swiftly averts her attention to her friend.

_Does she know?_

During lunch, she disappears with Alya, and Adrien heads back to his own house to eat in solitude.

He mulls over it during the entire drive there, while he trudges into the house, and when he sinks into a chair at the dining table.

He keeps replaying that kiss over and over again – almost as many times as he reassures himself that she made the right choice, for the both of them, by pulling away.

But her expression, any time he attempted at conversation, makes Adrien's anxiety spiral further and further.

Was there something he said to give himself away?

When Adrien's phone buzzes, his hand moves to his pocket instinctively.

_'Tomorrow night – 6 p.m. at Trocadéro Gardens. Ice skating with the ladies.'_

His brow wings up, _'Who?'_

Nino's reply is nearly instantaneous.

_'Alya and Marinette.'_

Adrien's stomach drops, his eyes moving from Nino's contact name to the two names mentioned in the text. He reads it a second time, and then a third.

_'Alya and Marinette.'_

**_Marinette._ **

The same girl that all but declared her feelings for him, only to run and hide at the sound of his voice the very next day. The same girl that wielded a pillow like a battleaxe, touched him with astonishing gentleness, and melted underneath him the very night before.

No, not him. _Chat._

The boy nearly forgets to text back, his fingertips hovering hesitantly over the screen, eyes glued to that name. When it vibrates again, Nino pressing for an answer, he manages a short confirmation.

_'Sounds like a plan!'_

And it really does sound like a plan. Because Adrien knows that it's almost certain that he'll have a chance to be alone with her. And if Marinette really does know his identity, then there's only one way to find out.

**___________________________________**

It's early evening, and the air is crisp and cold.

Adrien and Nino arrive early, and they still manage to get lost in the crowds.

The Eiffel Tower looms overhead, a radiant giant stretching to the sky. Luminosity spills over the Sein River, glittering brilliantly across the frozen fountains. Bodies press in around them, paying entrance fees and taking pictures.

Adrien shoves his hands in his pockets, pressing his face into the soft, blue fabric of his scarf.

"Did they say where to meet?" he asks.

"I just texted Alya." Nino remarks, "She said they're by the booths."

The blonde leans to the side, peering around a group in front of them. Nino pushes forward, lifting his phone to his ear as he shoulders through the crowd. Adrien utters out apologies as he ducks past, following after his friend.

Up ahead, he can make out the snowy rooftops of the wooden chalets. The night is brimming with chatter, a duet of blades on ice, cracking and slicing across the stadium. Silhouettes glide by as they pass the skating rink. Adrien tugs at his scarf, securing it over his nose.

His father was disapproving of this outing. At first he insisted the Gorilla accompany his son, lest 'some fanatics overtake him' or he get recognized and mugged. Adrien had to convince him that he would keep his head low. That the place would be flooded with tourists, and there was a slim possibility anyone would be able to pick him out of a crowd.

And if they did, he'd be wearing a piece from Agreste's latest winter line. At least he'd be advertising if he were caught in paparazzi photos.

He conveniently left out the fact that Nino would be accompanying him, and Chloe Bourgeois would not be present.

His friend raises his voice over the babble, cupping his hand over the phone's speaker.

"-too many people. I can't hear you."

Warm, artificial light washes over them as they step into the snow village, a line of booths and chalets lined down the length of the Sein. Banners and signs are pinned high and low, advertising food and souvenirs in big, colorful lettering.

Nino barks out a laugh, "Right. Well, you must be invisible, because we can't-"

His friend stops short, a yelp escaping him as a hand clamps down on his shoulder. He spins around, and a laugh tears through Adrien at the look on Nino's face.

"Invisible? No. Hot ninjas with unparalleled skills? Maybe." Alya says, smiling widely.

Nino shakes his head at her, but he cracks a grin.

"Unparalleled skills? Doubtful."

Alya props a hand on her hip, "How can you be so sure? For all you know, we could live secret, exciting lives, involving adventure and bad-guy whooping that you've never glimpsed."

Adrien stifles a grin.

His eyes move to the quiet figure beside her.

Marinette is soft tones and flushed cheeks. She looks impossibly more feminine than he last remembers, in muted grey tights and a pea coat. Her hair is gathered in a familiar style under the ear muffs, her nose pink from the cold. His gaze drifts over her, lingering on the air that steams past her lips.

Nino is saying something, and he's hardly aware of it until the boy elbows him sharply in the ribs.

"-before we go?"

Adrien clears his throat, "Sure, I could eat."

Nino shoots him a curious look, but whatever he's thinking is buried under his show of excitement. He nods, turning back to the girls.

"Anyone up for crepes?"

Alya voices her approval, looping her arm with Marinette's.

They walk down the road, following the rows of booths. Rich, multicolored lights are strung the entire length of the Sein, splashing a vibrant glow over the chalets.

Nino casually leans over the counter of a nearby stand, his eyes skirting the menu. Strangers enclose around them, navigating the narrow aisles, and Adrien is pressed closer into the group. He bumps into Alya, mumbling an apology.

Nino gestures toward the menu, looking at them expectantly.

A few minutes later, they gather around the skating rink, gloves discarded momentarily to eat.  
Adrien bites into the fluffy delicacy, a spout of happiness settling in his stomach as the sweet cream melts on his tongue. He imagines this must be what real bliss feels like.

His friends are in a similar disposition, expressions of delight and pleasure playing over their features as they devour the treats and lick their fingers.

Alya swipes a glob of whipped cream across Nino's cheek, and they dissolve into laughter and teasing, half the crepes getting lost somewhere between their faces and their mouths.

Not for the last time, Adrien glances at the fourth member of their group.

Marinette picks a strawberry out of her crepe, dropping it on a napkin that's balanced on her knee. She continues like this – taking bites and then picking out the fruit. They join a growing pile of other strawberries, and Adrien leans toward her curiously.

"You could have ordered it without strawberries," he says.

She startles, as though unaware of his proximity until now. Embarrassment crawls up her neck, warming her face.

"I do like them."

The boy stares inquisitively at her hands as she hesitantly pinches another one, depositing it on the napkin.

"Then why-?"

Marinette's hands still, but she doesn't look at him.

"I don't- I mean… I do like them. That's why."

When he doesn't say anything, she blurts out the rest.

"I like them best, so I save them for last."

He remains silent, and she lifts her eyes, timidly meeting his gaze from under her bangs. She hasn't looked at him directly, not once, in the last two days.

There is a smudge of cream on her chin, snowflakes in her hair. These aren't the same eyes from the night before. The heat, the sharp tongue and quick wit is absent. For whatever reason, she's lost under the weight of nerves when he's like this, no facades between them.

If this is the Marinette that likes Adrien, then who is the girl that kissed Chat?

She breaks away first, turning back to what's left of her crepe. She finishes it and moves on to the strawberries, plucking each one off the napkin delicately, overly aware of the pair of green eyes following her movements.

Nino shouts to them, and Adrien's head snaps up. Skates are slung over his and Alya's shoulders, a broad grin on his face as he jabs a thumb toward the rink.

When Marinette finishes, they throw their trash away and retrieve their skates from the rental booth.

Adrien isn't dissuaded by her reluctance toward conversation. As Chat, it was easy to pry at her – to issue a smile, or a frustrated scowl. And as himself, it seems the best reaction he can wrangle is embarrassment or confusion.

The thought surfaces, a fluttering distraction until he grasps hold of it.

He wanted to glean how much she knew – about his identity, and the source of her abrupt change in behavior toward him. Maybe there was more than one way to skin a cat.

_What would Chat do?_

Marinette folds over the bench, unzipping her boots. His eyes follow her fingers from under the fringe of his blond hair, his mind racing as he laces his skates.

He's not Chat, though. He's Adrien.

And Adrien can't flirt to save his life.

He steps out onto the ice, cold air kissing his face as it breezes across the rink. His blade catches as he pivots, turning to glimpse Marinette's scrunched, uncertain features.

She waddles forward, arms out as she toes out onto the frosty surface, and an unrestrained smile splits across Adrien's face.

There's an unbearable cuteness in the pout of her lips, her cheeks swollen with a held breath as she sways precariously. She toddles for several seconds, and he can see a hint of the Marinette that's not for him – the one that smiles and laughs for everyone else. It's in the slope of her brow, the determined glint in her eyes as she bites at the inside of her cheek. That undeterred resolve that strikes a chord of familiarity somewhere in his chest.

When her arms pinwheel, Adrien throws out his hands, seizing her by the waist before she can pitch forward.

She shrills, a sound that skips through his pulse and wipes the smile off his face. He nearly lets go right then, fearing that he's overstepped some unspoken boundaries.

Marinette grasps at the arms curved around her middle, using them for leverage as she regains her balance. He prays he doesn't lose his balance, or they're both going to end up sprawled across the ice.

She stutters out a thank you, and Adrien manages a mumbled affirmation before letting go. Her arms are still out, pin straight, and as she drifts around, he can see the focus shaded in her blue eyes.

"Do you know how to skate?" he ventures.

She presses her lips into a thin line, jaw set with a tenacity that he finds both foreign and intriguing. That same thrill – the one that carried him across her bedroom floor and into her loft – shoots through him.

"It's been a long time," after a pause, she adds, "I used to go with my Mom a lot. But then they opened the Bakery, and-"

She shakes her head, "Anyway. It's been a while."

His mind flits to his own mother, before he snuffs the train of thought.

She's speaking to him. It may not be as easy, or as uninhibited as the conversations between her and Chat Noir – but it's something.

An idea occurs to him.

He can see Alya and Nino, across the rink, trying to trip and push each other onto the ice. Whatever they're doing, they've clearly forgotten about their other two companions.

Adrien turns back to Marinette, his hand unconsciously moving to his coat pocket, where Plagg rests comfortably among his supply of cheese.

_What would Chat do?_

Marinette clutches onto the railing along the edge of the rink, her eyes on her skates. Her feet slip and slide under her gracelessly, and before she can lose her footing, Adrien makes a decision. He steels himself, slipping up behind her to brace her fall.

He closes a hand over one of hers, and there's a visible tension that travels over her small figure.

"Come here," he says gently, "It's no fun to be stuck on the sidelines the whole night."

He tugs her away from the wall, satisfaction rushing through him as she allows it. Marinette's cheeks are a deep hue of red, her attention torn between their joined hands and the ice under their feet.

Despite the gloves separating their skin, Adrien's fingers tingle at the memory of her touch. The same fingertips that dragged across his scalp, knitted through his hair to draw him in for a kiss, are the same ones that hook tightly over his hand now.

She's anxious. He can see the nerves play across her features, influencing the tremor in her legs, the lock of her knees. Adrien reaches forward, taking her other hand in his.

"See? This isn't so bad," he soothes.

Marinette sucks in a breath, tossing a fleeting look toward the people around them, and then toward her skates.

"Don't look at your feet," he says, "Look at me."

She does, tentatively.

They glide toward the center of the rink. Skaters loop around them, couples hand in hand, children between their parents' out stretched arms. But Adrien doesn't look away.

He can feel her heat through the gloves, the scratch of the material against his palm as she adjusts her grip. Dark strands of hair escape her ponytails, brushing her cheeks and falling in her vision.

He tries not to stare, but there's really no where else to look after he just told her to focus on him.

"So," he breathes, "You like strawberries?"

Embarrassment sweeps over him.

_Strawberries? What the hell?_

When she raises a brow, mildly confused at the abrupt topic change, he wants to smack himself.

"Ah… yes?"

Has he always been this awkward?

_So much for 'What would Chat do'._

Marinette frowns, momentarily distracted from her skating. She looks almost as confused as he feels mortified.

"I like sweet things," she says quietly.

"So do I," he says, flushing before amending, "Not that I like only sweet foods. I mean, I like many types of food."

Marinette smiles, and the way it drifts over her lips, peeking hesitantly over the material of her scarf, makes his heart pound.

"Like bread," he adds, the words falling out, "It can be sweet or savory. It can be two things at once, and that's pretty amazing. It's like a super food."

Her smile grows a little wider, and he feels like an idiot. He's making a fool of himself, and she actually likes it. Her parents own a bakery, and she's been around food prep her whole life. She probably thinks he sounds ridiculous.

"A super food?"

Oh, those eyes. There's a skeptical glint in them.

He's hesitant to continue, "Yeah. I mean… it can be different depending what it's needed for. With soup, or with dessert."

There's something in her expression, and he can't read it.

"But bread is still bread."

He pauses, caught by that look. There's something vulnerable about it.

"At the end of the day, no matter how you look at it, bread is still just bread. It's all rolled from the same, unremarkable dough," she sucks in a breath, "Before you add anything special to it, it's still just plain, regular bread."

And then, so soft he can barely hear it, "There's nothing super about that."

"What?" he breathes.

Neither one of them are paying attention to the skating, and as though suddenly aware of it, Marinette teeters, her eyes widening with panic as she plunges forward, head first into his chest.

The air is knocked out of Adrien as his back hits the ice, his head connecting with an audible 'crack'. Stars burst behind his eyes, pain shooting through his temple.

He's vaguely aware of her weight on him lifting, and then she's at his side in seconds.

"Adrien?!"

Her voice is right there, sweet and familiar. Gloveless hands – those hands – gentle in his hair.

"I'm- ugh… fine."

"You're bleeding!"

He makes an incoherent noise, reaching for her. Adrien clasps her wrists, peeling his eyes open. His vision swims.

"You need to go to the hospital," she's saying.

He groans, shaking his head. The movement makes him nauseous.

"My Dad-"

"Adrien!"

Nino is there, eyes wide. Alya appears behind him, and Adrien winces as they turn to Marinette.

"What happened?"

"He hit his head," she says, worry etched in her tone.

If they keep fussing over him, it's going to draw attention. Adrien pulls himself into a sitting position, head throbbing.

"He needs to go to the hospital," Alya states.

Adrien sighs, "No! No hospital."

He glances up at their concerned expressions, his statement only solidifying as he spots a figure a yard away, camera in hand.

"Help me up," he says, trying not to move his lips, "And act like it's no big deal."

Marinette and Alya look perplexed, but something seems to click in Nino's eyes. He grabs Adrien's hand, clutching at his back for support as he helps him up.

"You okay, dude?" he says a little loudly.

Adrien forces a smile, "Yeah, thanks."

He waves off his friend, "I'm good, man. Go back to your date."

Alya narrows her eyes, opening her mouth to say something, but Nino grabs hold of her hand, steering her away.

Marinette offers her hand, and Adrien takes it, leaning into her shoulder as subtly as he can. When she starts to totter, though, he realizes it isn't going to work; she's too inexperienced on the ice. He throws an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side as they move toward one of the exits. If his head wasn't pounding, he might take more interest in the dark scarlet that blooms in her face.

Angled away from the reporter, Adrien pitches his voice low, leaning toward her ear so she can hear him over the crowds for good measure. He'd rather they look like a couple to the man than an injured model getting carted off for treatment. If his father finds out about this, his already-slim freedoms will get narrowed and monitored even more drastically.

"There's a guy back there with a camera. I don't want pictures getting back to my Dad," he explains softly.

Marinette nods, "So, the hospital?"

He swallows thickly.

"No. He'll probably follow us there, since I've been recognized."

"Adrien, you might be severely injured-"

This close, he can smell her shampoo. It's something floral, and the familiarity of it clenches in his gut.

When he doesn't respond, she lets out a sigh.

"My mom can help. She's patched-up her fair share of cuts and burns, being married to a baker."

His mouth goes dry.

_Marinette's house._

It's already been two days since he's been there. But the thought of being there again – even though he's Adrien and his head feels like it's filled with cotton – makes his heart race.

"Okay," he manages.

Marinette shifts under his shoulder, and he can feel her arm slip behind his back, hesitant.

"I'll text Alya and let her know."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Warning: Loads of fluff ahead._

They made the relatively short walk from the Trocadéro Gardens to the Metro Station. Adrien was insistent on keeping a low profile; he didn't want this incident finding its way back to his father.

Nino and Alya had spoken about how strict Gabriel Agreste could be, and from what she'd witnessed of Adrien's daily life – his rigorous schedules and training in miscellaneous arts – she didn't find it hard to believe.

As they left the skating rink, distancing themselves from the lights and the cameras, Adrien relaxed against her shoulder.

_"I'm sorry if I'm inconveniencing you."_

She shook her head vigorously.

_"Oh, no! You're not an inconvenience at all – really!"_

His eyes were a warm green, like a bed of grass in the peak of spring. They crinkled when their gazes met, and she took an abrupt interest in her shoelaces.

_"Wouldn't your Dad understand? Accidents happen…"_

Adrien took a deep breath, _"He's very particular about how I should spend my time. So, he wasn't entirely approving of me going out tonight, and if he heard about-"_

He shook his head, clearing his throat.

_"…I don't want to lose my privileges,"_ he finished quietly.

Marinette's chest tightened. His voice was resolute, as though having friends, and living the life of a regular boy with regular responsibilities was a privilege. As though being trapped in an emotional cage, keeping his thoughts and opinions carefully schooled behind a pleasant facade, was the normal thing to do. The smile he offered then had been so forced, thin and sad, and Marinette couldn't think of the right thing to say.

_"I'm sure he loves you,"_ she whispered lamely.

His expression pinched, and she could feel him pull him a steadying breath. But when she lifted her eyes back to his face, the smile was still in place.

_______________________________________

The Metro is crowded tonight.

Marinette's pulse is in her ears, her heart slamming against her ribs as they squeeze onto the train. Adrien's shoulder bumps hers, and his hand closes over her wrist.

She can feel his breath against the shell of her ear, "So we don't get separated."

If she wasn't nervous before, the proximity has managed to make it a hundred times worse.

Bodies press in around her, scarves and coats, hats and gloves. A tall, middle-aged woman, toting a very large bag, stumbles into Marinette as more people stream into the compartment. Her apology is lost in the crowd, and the young girl releases a muffled noise as she trips forward.

Her forehead smacks against Adrien's chin.

The pain is brief, but the embarrassment lasts much longer. She rubs at her forehead, glimpsing his reaction from under her hand. The corners of his mouth quirk up in amusement, and she can barely manage an apology without dissolving into a blundering mess.

Earlier tonight she'd been managing to keep a level head. As long as she avoided his eyes, and kept her attention fixed on Alya, everything was fine. Not perfect – but fine. Before she even went out tonight, she'd resolved to distance herself from Adrien until she could sort out her feelings. And yet.

And yet, here he is; his pianist fingers resting on the delicate curve of her wrist – the smile reaching his eyes for the first time since they left the rink.

Marinette grabs hold of one of steel poles next to them, taking solace in the cold bite of the metal against her palm. It grounds her, allowing enough of a distraction for her to drag her gaze away, even momentarily.

She looks out the window, and the blue eyes that stare back are accusatory and unimpressed. As though, from within, Ladybug is judging her cowardice.

"Do you think your mom will be upset?"

"What for?" she asks, startled.

Adrien frowns, "I mean, I'm just showing up to your house out of no-"

Marinette laughs, and the sound is shaky and unconvincing in her ears.

"I'm sure she'll understand – especially since you're injured."

As though in answer, his free hand moves to his head, touching the spot with careful, probing fingers. She doesn't miss the wince, or the hint of red on his fingers. Marinette's heart leaps, wedging in her throat.

"Adrien, are you bleeding?"

He grimaces, guilt flashing across his face. How someone can get unintentionally hurt, and then feel _remorse_ over it, astonishes her.

She leans forward, lifting a hand hesitantly.

"May I?"

The train bumps and jostles, the people around them shifting ever closer. She can see the feathery, fair strands of hair that fall across his forehead, mussed from the wind outside. The familiar, blue material of his scarf looped around his throat. The same scarf she worked feverishly over, pricked her fingers for, and took pride in when she wrapped it for him.  
The same scarf that, for him, symbolizes the love he craves from his father.

"Sure," he utters.

Marinette reaches up timidly. She would be far more shaken, far more scared of touching him like this, on any other occasion. But Adrien could be seriously hurt, and that thought alone guides her hand. She smoothes her digits through his hair, and tension draws through her stomach like a bowstring.

This is different than it was with Chat. Adrien is still, and patient. He doesn't keen into her touch like an attention-starved stray, or nuzzle his nose into the soft skin of her forearm. But there's something else, something painfully familiar about the way she eases her hands through the tresses, and his warm breath against the crook of her elbow.

The lights from the train, the chatter around them, fade as she drags her fingertips across his scalp. Adrien's eyes sweep closed, and there's something in his expression – in the draw of his brows, the part of his lips – that makes her head throb.

He's cut from the same perfection that drew out from Michelangelo's hands, that was cut into the warm skyline at an evening's peak in Paris.  
She's completely forgotten about the blood, or the injury, entirely. She's so enchanted by his expression, and the feel of his locks between her fingers, that she hardly notices when the middle-aged woman shifts her bag.

It hits her square in the back, and Marinette staggers into him, their chests colliding. Her arm loops over his shoulder, his other hand still clasped gently around her wrist. And now her nose is brushing his jaw, and her mind is reeling, struggling to process his cologne, the firm expanse of his chest…

Marinette jolts back, letting out an unintelligible noise.

Adrien's eyes snap open, surprise and confusion etched across his features. Her face burns, mortification settling in the pit of her stomach. The woman behind her adjusts her bag, and Marinette silently curses the wretched thing.

The young hero lifts her hand, attempting at an even tone, "It looks like you're bleeding a little, but I think the flow stopped a while ago."

He glances from her to the red smear on her fingers, and then back again. There's a pause, but it's too short to be registered as anything but momentary contemplation.

"Maybe it was the ice that was applied," he says jokingly.

A laugh escapes her, but it's high and unnatural, and her neck crawls with a deepening blush.

___________________________________________

The bakery is dark, but the lights are on upstairs.

Sabine opens the door with startled curiosity, noting the handsome boy draped across her daughter's shoulder (the same one she's seen depicted in pictures all over the girl's room).

The woman ushers them in, rushing off to collect a first aid kit. Adrien sinks onto the living room couch, his head falling back against a cushion. Marinette touches his arm gently, shoving down her apprehension over the contact.

"Try to stay awake, okay? You might have a concussion."

He sits up, blinking blearily at her.

"Right! Right."

Sabine appears through the doorway, easing down next to him on the couch. He twists around, turning his back to her to allow better access.

"How did this happen?" she asks, opening the little case.

Marinette flushes, glancing at her hands.

"I fell," Adrien says matter-of-factly, "We were skating, and Ma- _I_ lost my balance and fell."

Sabine hums in interest as she parts the blonde tresses, tugging them back with gentle fingers. She sprays the abrasion with soapy water, carefully dabbing the blood away with a clean cloth.

"Where's Dad?" Marinette ventures.

"In bed," her mother shakes her head, "He has a long day tomorrow, poor dear – lots of orders to fill. A big venue has an upcoming company party, and they put in a large order."

She uncaps the antiseptic, and Adrien grimaces at the burn.

"I've tried your father's tarts, and they were delicious. I'm sure the rest of his creations are very good," Adrien comments politely.

Sabine smiles widely, "If you like, I could bring you some cookies. We have some left over from display this afternoon."

Before Adrien can say anything, Marinette cuts in.

"We're good, mom! We already ate."

She doesn't want this visit to last longer than necessary, or for her mother to start pulling out the photo albums or slip in an opportunity to embarrass her.  
She's lucky her father isn't here right now, or it could be even worse.

Sabine nods, shooting her daughter a knowing grin from behind Adrien's head. Marinette wishes she could sink into the couch cushions and disappear.

Her mother finishes cleaning the scrape, gently applying gauze. Adrien reaches up to touch it gingerly, offering a grateful smile to Sabine as she stands.

"Thank you," he says.

She brushes off her pants, pausing to close the first aid case.

"Oh, it's no problem, dear."

She turns to Marinette, glancing between them.

"Would you like some tea?"

Marinette opens her mouth, but this time Adrien is the first to respond.

"Yes, please!"

The kitchen is connected to the living room – an open space. But Sabine leaves the room, moving toward the door that leads down to the bakery, right after tossing a curious expression over her shoulder toward Marinette. Her daughter shoots a pleading look back, but it's only met with a smile.

Quiet falls over the living room when the door closes, and Marinette sits very still, resisting the urge to squirm. He's in her house – sitting on her furniture. His model-long legs are draped over her couch, perfectly tousled hair marred by the white gauze on the back of his head.

She's so distracted by his presence, by the curve of his jaw and the hands clasped in his lap, that she doesn't even notice where he's looking until he speaks.

"Do you have any siblings?"

She starts, eyes rounding.

"Ah…no. I'm an only child."

Adrien's eyes graze over the picture frames on the shelves. He rises, and she tenses as he crosses over to one.

"This looks like it was a fun day."

His voice is soft, and she glances toward the picture, catching the tone of his voice.

She was ten when that photo was taken. Her Dad's apron was covered in flour, and so was she. Their faces were smattered with cake batter and icing, and there was traces of it in their hair. The entire kitchen had been an absolute mess, and her mother had been downright furious. That is, until she found her husband and daughter laughing like idiots, wrestling the icing tips away from each other.

Sabine took that photo right after.

Marinette's heart tightens, and her lips curve with the memory of it.

"It was."

Adrien casts a sidelong glance at her, before placing the frame back on the shelf. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"My parents just never felt like they needed any other kids, I guess," she says, addressing his previous question.

"Your family seems great," he says.

She looks at his face then – really looks at it. The polite mask has fallen by a fraction, and she can see the emotions that were guarded by the dark before. The way the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and the practiced way he forces it when it's begun to waver.

"Your Dad," she says, trying for a light tone, "He seems very…ambitious."

Adrien lets out a laugh, but it sounds more broken than genuine.

"Yeah, he's… he's something."

Marinette watches him tentatively, and Adrien notes the expectant silence. Their eyes meet briefly, and this time, he's the first to glance away.

"He cares in his own way, I think," he's quiet, as though carefully selecting each word, "I believe that he wants the best for me, even if his methods are unconventional."

Adrien shakes his head, "He wasn't always like this. I mean, before Mom…"

He falters, and there's an audible pause. Marinette senses they've stepped into uncharted territory here; something darker, and sensitive to touch. Something he rarely speaks of, and hardly dares to – for fear of rejection or reprimanding.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she assures him gently, "But if you'd like to, I'll listen."

He stares at the picture for several seconds, and she can see something turning, his mind working through something. When he eases down next to her, she has to remind herself to breathe.

"My mom," he says, and it's more of an uncertain experiment than an offer of conversation. It's as though he's trying the sound of it, tasting the word on his tongue before he does anything with it.

After another beat, he clears his throat and tries again.

"My mom was really great, from what I remember. She was pretty, and smart."

Something similar to adoration flits across his features.

"She'd read to me almost every night, and if we ran out of books, she'd make up stories. I remember when I was really little, I used to run through the house in costumes. Dressing-up was one of my favorite things – I could be the dragon, the knight, the superhe-"

He glances at her, "I mean, I could be anyone – and I could live any story she told me. I guess that's one of the things that first led my Dad to put me in modeling, aside from the advertising. But, with my mom… she understood."

Marinette swallows, "She understood?"

"Yeah," Adrien frowns, "She understood that the dressing up, the pretend, the stories… it was freedom."

She watches him, takes in the slump of his shoulders, and the dark green of his eyes. And she doesn't see a model, or an ideal image of Gabriel Agreste's legacy to a fashion empire. She sees Adrien – lonely, tired, and uncertain Adrien.

"How can being someone else be freeing?" she whispers outloud.

He looks at her, brows rising.

"What do you mean?"

Marinette bites the inside of her cheek. When she takes a deep breath and plows on, she knows she's already said too much.

"I mean, pretending to be someone you're not must be frustrating. Look at Ladybug and Chat Noir for instance. Every day they have to walk around, live their daily lives, and pretend the fate of France doesn't rest on their shoulders. That has to be exhausting."

Adrien smiles then, and some of the weight from before appears to shift.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, though. To be someone else, with a different set of responsibilities – to run and fight and live through someone else's eyes," he grins, adding, "And to be as attractive and cool as Chat Noir…"

She laughs, shooting him a disbelieving look.

"Underneath all that, he's just a normal boy – like you or me," she says.

Maybe it's the tone of her voice, or the playful glint in his eyes. But somehow they've drawn closer, and as he shoots back a retort, their shoulders brush.

"You don't sound very fond of him," he presses nonchalantly.

Marinette's eyes slant toward the boy, a grin tugging at her lips. The thought of Chat, of the pompous look on his face right before she smacked it off, makes something unfamiliar and sharp rush over her. In the last few days, the foreign sense of it brought discomfort – but with Adrien here, it washes out, drowned by the flush in his cheeks and the bat of his eyes.

"He's a stupid cat," she says, but her tone is light, "Stupid and pushy."

"Pushy? It sounds like there's a story there."

The blood drains from her head, and pools straight into her cheeks. She would avert her gaze, but she's abruptly aware of the proximity – of the broad shoulder grazing against her, and the place where their legs touch. When did he get this close?

More importantly, how does she keep getting into these situations?

Her eyes inadvertently drop to his lips. The bow of them, soft and inviting; the way they curl into an irresistible smile that melts any coherent thoughts in her head. The touch of his hand as it slips over hers-

"I hope you like cinnamon!" Sabine says cheerfully.

Marinette flies to her feet, and she manages to form a polite (albeit loud) expression of gratitude to her mother. She lurches toward the woman, fluttering around the tea set and inquiring if there's anything she can assist with.

Adrien watches from the couch, amusement softening the surprise on his features.

________________________________________

The night is quiet, but Ladybug's head is churning.

She's narrowly missed two jumps now, barely catching her yoyo just in time before hitting the ground. She hooks the yoyo into a fire escape, launching herself over a roof before tumbling to her feet. She's hardly aware of the impact, thanks to the resilience her Miraculous grants her, but she still braces herself, rolling into the fall.

Chat Noir vaults over a chimney, landing a few feet away. There's something different about him tonight, but she keeps telling herself it's the lack of akuma during the last several days, and he's growing restless.

"Is there something wrong, Bugaboo?"

She glances up, frowning.

"You know I don't like it when you call me that."

"Come on, Lovebug, I'm just kitten."

Ladybug turns, striding toward the edge of the roof.

"Okay!" he shouts, "Okay, I'll try to be serious."

She pauses, twisting around to cast a doubtful look toward him. There is definitely something off, and it's not just the hood he's wearing (when she questioned him over it earlier, he claimed it helped keep the wind out of his face). He seems more tired than usual, and he denies it has anything to do with his health.

"Maybe it would be better if we split up tonight. You take the next few streets, and I'll backtrack," she offers.

He grimaces, "Was it that bad?"

She laughs, "Your jokes are always bad."

At the dejected look on his face, she amends.

"It's not the jokes, though. I just… it's been a long day."

He steps toward her, and the other night flashes through her mind. Bright eyes and smooth sheets, the heat of his mouth-

She has to stop herself from taking a step back.

"Personally I think my jokes are hilarious," he says, grinning, "And if there's any way I could cheer you up-"

Her eyes move to his lips, and a shot of confusion and astonishment takes the breath out of her. Ladybug averts her eyes, focusing on a blip of light in the distance – a boat bobbing down the Sein.

This is the second time tonight she's looked at a boy's mouth and had to catch herself. And now with Chat? _Chat_?

"I appreciate the thought," she says carefully, "But really, it might be better if I just-"

Ladybug lets out a shout. Her legs slip out from under her, and she has a fraction of a second to catch herself before her head connects with the roof – praise for fast, supernatural reflexes.

She looks up, eyes wide in surprise as a head of blonde hair and black cat ears obscure the blanket of stars overhead. A curious pair of slit eyes regard her with interest.

"You don't like jokes," he says, "But I _know_ My Lady likes a challenge."

She fixes him with a glower.

"You thought it was a brilliant idea to knock me off my feet?"

Doubt flits over his features, uncertainty flashing in his eyes, and he offers a hand to her. She takes it, allowing him to pull her up, but as he opens his mouth to apologize, she lifts a foot and slams it into his stomach.

Chat hits the brick wall of the chimney, coughing roughly as he clutches his middle. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before his baton flies toward him, and he snatches it out of the air.

Their eyes meet – sharp cerulean and feverish green, and there's a moment of silence before they both break into knowing smiles.

Ladybug ducks out of his staff's reach, rolling to the side as he leaps toward her. His claws rake the air, missing the lithe curve of her back as she slips out of reach. She glides up behind him, reaching around to tweak his nose before he spins around and swipes for her.

She's grown too cocky, too comfortable when it comes to fighting Chat Noir. She knows every motion, every twist and turn of his body, every familiar stance and throw in his posture. They're two parts of the same whole.

_A team._

She can feel the breeze in her hair, the city light on her face as she jumps from the roof and out of his reach. And he's behind her – running, dancing to a harmony that they've fallen into. It's a pattern that only the two of them know – twist, duck, drop, roll, swipe, hit, run…

_Repeat._

Again, and again, and again.

She could play it endlessly, reveling in the expression on her partner's face, in the feel of her suit against her skin – the cold air on her face and the snow crunching under her feet.

Her mind goes back to what Adrien said, and for once, she understands.

_"She understood that the dressing up, the pretend, the stories… it was freedom."_

And she understands – because this is freedom.

She's free from her fear, from her anxiety, from trying to be someone she's not. Right now, in the shadow of the rooftops and the glow of the city, no one is looking at her. No one is expecting her to make good grades, design something great, or succeed her parents' business. No one is begging her to save someone from a burning building, take pictures, or protect the city from a deranged, power-hungry lunatic.

She's… _free_.

Free to leap across the buildings, and soar through the night. Free to spar with her trusted partner and play a game of keep-away like the child she occasionally forgets she is.

Free to live.

Chat is underneath her, and his staff is forgotten. They wrestle with each other, one of her hands on his throat and the other braced against his chest. He grabs at her waist, throwing her under him, and a laugh rips through her as he pins one of her legs with his knee.

"It's cute that you think you have the upper-hand," she says coyly.

His eyes are smoldering, impish.

"You think I'm cute, My Lady?"

She wedges her free leg between them, bringing it up to hitch her knee over his waist. His eyes widen, the playful banter giving way to something darker.

"Chaton, do you know what you are?" she murmurs.

She can feel his gaze, dragging over the mask, her lips, her jaw…

"You're naïve."

She hooks her foot into the dip of his leg, throwing her weight into it. When his back hits the ground, he lets out a breathless sound, and she grins triumphantly, flicking his little bell before standing.

"If you act like this every time a girl gets on top of you, how will you ever resist a villain if she tries to seduce you?" she teases.

"The only wicked touch I'm vulnerable to is yours," he says lowly.

The tone of his voice, the husky way it catches in his throat, lingers in her abdomen. He holds her gaze, and the lighthearted atmosphere nearly spirals out of reach before she can grasp onto it.

She forces a bright, easy smile, "Silly kitty."

If she were Marinette, this would play out differently. She wouldn't be able to flirt so freely, to play on his heartstrings and tease him like this. The embarrassment, the guilt, would eat away at her.

But Chat makes it so easy.

She forgets herself – her responsibilities, her level-headed exterior. He gets under her skin, and draws out every part of her that is reckless and foolish, and she forgets why there's even supposed to be a wall between them in the first place.

She knows she needs to say something, to stitch together what's left of their camaraderie before things get out of place and complicated. After what happened today with Adrien, this is the _last_ thing that she needs to be doing.

His devilish smile roots her in place, and before she can even think to salvage what was left of their amiable exchange, she hears the explosion.

And just like that, the freedom is gone.


	6. Chapter 6

The Agreste house is too cold, too silent. Adrien studies his ceiling, tracing the patterns that swirl over his bed. He's done this a million times before – become so familiar with every niche and every line, that he could recite them even after he's fallen asleep.

But tonight is different.

He's not escaping his father's disapproval, or Nathalie's meager attempts at urging him from his room. She plays at caring, and in some recess of her narrow mind, she possibly does. Ultimately his father is her employer, though, and he doesn't care how Adrien keeps himself occupied, as long as he's quiet.

Don't make noise, don't invite people over, don't make a mess–

He has the list memorized, nearly as well as he can recall the patterns on the ceiling above his bedroom.

Adrien's mind drifts to the patrol from the previous night for the millionth time. The little game of keep away, the following incident, and Ladybug…

She had been so close.

He could practically taste the sweat on her skin, feel the heat through the smooth expanse of her suit. When her leg draped over his waist, he nearly came undone. He had to restrain himself from running a hand over the supple curve of it, from losing his sense of propriety entirely and unraveling the boundaries she had danced over in a moment of rash curiosity. She was so close, he could hardly breathe.

And within seconds it was gone, and she slipped through his fingers.

Her voice was in his head, teasing. As though the proximity, the press of their bodies and the rush of adrenaline – the chase – meant little more than child's play.

_"Silly kitty."_

He was silly, undoubtedly. Silly for thinking it could be anymore than friendly banter, for allowing himself to get caught up in her touch, in her irresistible, bubbling laughter. He wanted all of it – all of her. He wanted the exasperated, amused smiles, meant solely for him. He wanted the loyalty, the trust.

Even the secrecy.

He'd savor being the skeleton in her closet, the dark, unspoken secret in her life – as long as it meant he has a place in it.

She was looking at him, but it was different. Breathless and uncertain, and something he'd only allowed himself to dream of.

Hope could be an intoxicating feeling, especially if indulged.

Chat leaned into the stare, his body wired with anticipation.

And then the atmosphere was broken by a shattering explosion, the moment lost – ripped out from under them.

Her eyes widened, her expression schooling into something collected and familiar as she plunged off the roof and into the city lights, a flutter of scarlet in the flash of traffic below. He dashed after her, moving without even making the conscious decision to do so.

Chat buried the hilt of his staff into the roof, vaulting into the open air, skirting across the pipes and shingles before landing and lunging into a breathless run. The wind hit his face, reminding him that it was the dead of winter, and he was in the midst of it.

The run, the pursuit from before, had distracted him entirely from the weather. The exertion had kept him warm – and admittedly, so had the wrestling with Ladybug.

Mere seconds passed before he was close enough to make out her features. The childish antics were gone, replaced by a resolute focus that reflected the hero Paris had come to rely on and adore.

_"Did you hear where it came from?"_ she asked breathlessly.

She knew that shouting was unnecessary, that his heightened senses would pick out her voice above the traffic and the wind. She counted on it, and that unquestioning conviction filled him.

_"Ah…"_

His hesitation was staggering, and Ladybug threw him an incredulous look.

_I was sort of distracted._

_"Focus, Chat,"_ she said knowingly.

_Easier said than done._

The streets fell out beneath them, a blur of concrete and noise, florescent lights and vibrant advertisement.

________________________________________

It was impossible to focus.

She was too close, too beautiful, and too unbearably distracting.

Every sway of her hips, every bat of her eyes, made him weak. His eyes followed the street lights that slid over her figure, accenting every line and curve beneath the suit. Within minutes of their arrival to the affected area, Chat was struggling to maintain his composure, let alone his focus.

His mind was still elsewhere at the beginning of the patrol tonight. Still imaging the flush in Marinette's cheeks, the soft pressure of her arm against his back. He could almost feel her hand in his hair again, gently raking those irresistible fingers across his scalp. The scent of the bakery on her skin, sugar and chocolate and everything that he knew he couldn't have.

_This needs to stop_ , he told himself.

It wasn't fair to Marinette – to be in love with someone else, to dedicate his thoughts and feelings to that person, and then let his hormones overthrow his better judgment. He couldn't promise her, or himself, that it was something more than that. After everything that he had gone through with Ladybug, it'd be a lie to say he could simply move on from his feelings for her.

She had made it clear in the last few years that they are partners, and nothing more. That all of the playful banter, the flirting, the side-long glances – meant nothing. It was something undefined, something he should let be. Something that shouldn't be scratched, or scrutinized too carefully, or it could disappear altogether. To lose that undetermined mischief – after all he'd scraped and clawed and achieved to win her trust – would be devastating.

_We're a team. We're friends, Chat._

The indecision in her sweet, alluring eyes wedged into his subconscious, eating away at him.

Adrien was lost in thought, hardly aware of when the rooftops swept out from under them, replaced by winding streets. He was hardly aware of the bank, burning bright against the dark sky, or the overturned vehicles in the streets. The only thing that roused him was Ladybug's hands on his shoulders, her voice in his ears.

_"Chat, I need you. I need your full attention; I can't afford any distraction."_

The flames reflected in her blue eyes, half her face cast in shadows.

_"You always have my full attention, My Lady."_

He tried to keep his voice light, to be the joking and familiar partner she was used to. But his tone caught in his throat, pitching something low and meaningful into every syllable – something he ached to grasp onto and shove back down his throat.

_"That's what I'm afraid of,"_ she said.

Her voice wavered, a flicker of something he couldn't identify passing over her features. And then she was gone, a sanguine smear against the looming darkness.

His focus continued to falter through the rest of the night. When they located the robbers, when Ladybug apprehended two of them and dragged them out of the building and out onto the road.

The heat swelled around the building, and his gaze was drawn to the sweat beading on her forehead. The way it rolled down her cheeks, mingling with the dark hair plastered to her neck. The fire's glare on her red suit, every inch of it clinging to the soft, petite curves…

In the back of his mind, he knew he wasn't Adrien right now. He was Chat, and that meant he was her other half, but it also entailed an obligation to the rest of the world – an obligation that demanded dedication.

She was mesmerizing, yes. And after endless lessons in Chinese, fencing, and piano, his memory was well-exercised enough to recall _every_ agonizing detail of their entangled encounter from before. But Paris needed him – _she_ needed him – to get ahold of himself.

He nearly had a hand on it, nearly wrenched his thoughts back onto the narrow, shielded track of responsibility.

And then the third thief, unaccounted for, darted straight past him.

Ladybug shouted his name, and his head lifted, eyes blown wide as he twisted around to make a desperate grab for the man. And then her yoyo flew forward, the unyielding string snapping tight around Chat's outstretched arm.

He hit the ground fairly hard, his jaw connecting with brick. His ears rang, sharp pain shooting through his head. It was the second time that night that he had taken a spill, and the second time his head took the impact. This time he landed face-first, and he inwardly prayed there wouldn't be any marks to show for it on the next photoshoot.

The robber tripped over Chat's leg, taking an equally painful fall. Unfortunately, it wasn't his most praiseworthy (or refined) work as a hero, but it was a small miracle Alya wasn't there to document it.

When the first police car arrived, Ladybug looped her arm around Adrien's waist, flinging her yoyo toward a nearby building. She hooked it onto the railing, thrusting them both into the air, and away from the incoming media coverage.

His stomach lurched from the movement, pain lancing through his temple. The moment they touched the roof, he was already pitching forward, emptying his stomach into an alleyway below. He could taste blood, mingling with the acid on his tongue. It wasn't a pleasant combination with his swimming vision.

She eased over him, smoothing his hair back and repeating his name in a soft, soothing voice. He groaned, leaning into her hand.

_"Come here, kitty. Shhh."_

She urged him away from the lip of the building, hands on his shoulders.

The heat from the bank still rose between the structures, the fire's glow dancing across her face. He sank into her lap, keening as her fingers moved through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. Her hands were pacifying, the smooth material of her suit snuffing the pain by a fraction.

_"Chat,"_ she whispered, _"Why couldn't you just listen to me?"_

He squeezed his eyes closed, swallowing back another roll of nausea. If he didn't have a concussion before, he definitely did now.

_"I always listen to you, Bugaboo,"_ he said, wincing past his attempt at a smile.

She frowned, _"And yet you still get yourself into these situations."_

Despite her frosty tone, she still drew her fingers through his blond hair. The hood had fallen, and the chilled breeze stirred through the tresses, somewhat pleasant on their hot faces.

_"Maybe it's just my bad luck,"_ he mused.

She didn't respond, and he could almost feel her disapproval. Ladybug didn't like discussing the 'ridiculous notion' of the ties between black cats and bad luck. Despite his argument that her powers were quite literally connected to phrases like 'lucky charm', she consistently shot down any idea that he could spawn misfortune.

_"What a fine chance that I have you, My Lady."_

Her fingers stilled. For a moment, he thought he might have said something disconcerting. It was hard to tell while his head was throbbing and she was petting him. He would have given up anything to remain like this, regardless of the injury.

_"Chat, did you get hurt today?"_

The nausea clenched in his stomach, his heart slamming against his ribs. The cold breeze was abruptly uncomfortable, even though his cheeks burned and perspiration trickled down his neck.

Adrien could feel her hand against the back of his head, gently dragging her thumb over the bandage there.

_"We can't stay here for too long,"_ he said quietly.

_"Chat,"_ she repeated, _"Did you come out for patrol tonight even though you are already **hurt**?"_

_"My Lady–"_

_" **No** , Chat. You must be incredibly stupid to come out here like this, and then **keep it a secret** from me! We're a team, you stupid cat!"_

Her voice rose, and he could feel her hands clenching in his hair.

_"You can't keep these things from me! How am I supposed to keep you safe, or be there for you, if I don't know? How am I supposed to–"_

Chat turned then, craning his neck to look at her. The effort sliced through his vision, sending a new wave of pain to pound against his skull. He squinted past it to the soft curve of her chin, the slope of her nose. Hot tears collected in her dark lashes, spilling out onto her cheeks. They wet her trembling lips, and his heart tightened as her voice broke.

_"I can't take care of you if you don't tell me when you're hurting. And it could be even **worse** now. You probably have a concussion, or…or something else, you stupid, stupid cat."_

She hiccupped, and the affront escaped her a few more times before she began swiping angrily at her cheeks.

_"You're so stupid…such a dumb cat…stupid, stupid…"_

He took her face into his hands before he even registered it, running his thumbs over her wet cheeks. Chat shushed her in a low voice, his pulse rising as she continued to insult him under her breath. Hiccup, insult, hiccup, insult.

Ladybug was shaking, and the reality of it struck him. She was scared; _his_ lady, the strong, fearless hero of Paris, was terrified for his sake.

_"I'm okay,"_ he murmured.

His temple flared, and Chat had to grit his teeth to steel himself past it. She shook her head, frowning at him through the tremor in her voice.

_"You didn't trust me enough to tell me, did you?"_

Surprise shot through him, _"Of course I trust you. My Lady, I trust you more than anyone."_

_"Then why didn't you tell me? Chat, you could have head trauma, or internal bleeding, or–"_

Her anger dissolved into another bout of frustration, and he nearly came undone right there. Cradled on her lap, his cheek touching her stomach, watching as fresh tears trickled past his fingers.

He had never seen her cry – especially not like this.

_"You weren't paying attention, and I thought you were just being flirty and irresponsible. But you were actually hurting, and I didn't know it," she squeezed her eyes closed, "I should have noticed."_

Ladybug folded over him then, dark strands of hair grazing his forehead. It was as though something had snapped – a carefully collected persona that she had been projecting for some time now. The distance she had carefully built between them had somehow grown fragile, and he wasn't sure when or what had issued it to do so.

_"I'm so angry with you,"_ she said in an unsteady whisper, _"I'm so angry with myself, and I'm so upset, I could just–"_

He almost kissed her then.

The realization of it came over her when their noses brushed, when the distance became nonexistent and the proximity drew their warm breaths together, mingling in the space between them. She smelled like vanilla – like something warm and delicious and incredibly _tempting_.

He could have kissed her. In those long, agonizing seconds when her eyes dropped to his mouth. In that beat when her other hand came to rest on his chest, and his heart thrummed against her splayed fingers, a chant of encouragement that only the two of them could hear.

He could have kissed her, but he didn't.

____________________________________

Adrien stares at the ceiling for a moment longer before throwing his legs over the side of his bed. He crosses to his desk, frowning at the computer screen as it lights up.

She was _so close_.

The moment had slipped through his fingers, and this time it wasn't because of an akuma attack or a bank robbery.

He could still see the flustered uncertainty on her lovely features as she jolted back. The murmur of an apology as she fumbled to wipe her face, smearing ash and tears over her cheeks. The fact that she even felt the need to apologize cut deeper than the concussion, or anger with himself for making her uncomfortable.

His chest ached when she assumed a cool expression, throwing the wall back up between them. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by that same, familiar distance. She made him promise to see a doctor, to call her if anything happened, before she disappeared and escaped to her civilian life.

He remained on that roof for another twenty minutes, eyes fixed on the night sky, unseeing. The sirens and the rush of water from the firetrucks faded, a backdrop behind his thoughts, and the ache in his head.

He came up with a story for his father, something believable to appease the man without obliterating his freedom altogether.

Gabriel Agreste had been very displeased, albeit suspicious about his son hitting his head on the edge of his bedroom desk. It was marked as 'irresponsible' and 'foolish', and after a lengthy lecture, he escaped to his room.

The family's private physician treated him with discretion, and the cut on his lip wasn't entirely noticeable. The upcoming line of leather clothing might even pair well with it in the next photoshoot.

Plagg had collapsed on his pillow, letting out a grumble or two before drifting off into a deep slumber. He wouldn't be roused anytime soon with anything less than camembert, and Adrien knew that's what the little kwami would expect after a long night of patrolling.

_A Robbery Gone Wrong._

That's what the media calls it. But it's not what plays through Adrien's head before he falls asleep that night, or what preoccupies his thoughts during the drive to school the following Monday.

He hadn't kissed her. The girl he had been in love with for months, even a few years now. And the reason behind it, when he mused carefully, came with a rush of loathing.

In that moment when he could have, when her lips hovered inches away and her hand was on his chest, his mind darted to someone else entirely. And all he could think about was a separate pair of eyes, nearly the same shade of blue, and a head of nearly identical dark hair. The same scent of vanilla, the same uncertainty in her flushed face…

Comparing Marinette to Ladybug was _wrong_ , and he despised himself for it. And though he'd been dreaming of that moment, of her breath fanning against his face, and the touch of her gentle hands, he couldn't do it.

Not when there was another kiss haunting him.


	7. Chapter 7

Adrien is absent all week.

Alya reasons that it's better for him to get rest after that fall at the Trocadéro Gardens. That his head is probably fine, and Mr. Agreste is most likely overreacting.

" _His father probably wants him to be in the best condition for the upcoming photoshoot this weekend_ ," her friend says.

Marinette still can't deny her disappointment. She'd been looking forward to seeing him, to apologizing for their spill on the ice; it was undeniably her fault, and he was too kind to say so.

So instead of focusing on Adrien's sunny blond hair through classes, or the fiddling of his pencil and scribbles in his notebook, she's left with an empty seat and an overflowing collection of thoughts from the weekend. Thoughts that are better left untouched and unaddressed.

She's experienced confliction before, but not to this extent.

Confliction is deciding what fabric to use for an upcoming designing competition, or inwardly struggling with the cake topper for your parents' anniversary cake. Whether keeping your secret from the people that love you most is a good idea, or whether you should have ever accepted such heavy responsibility. Confliction is convincing yourself you're making the right choice when everything else is telling you _it's wrong_.

Confliction is _not_ on a cold rooftop overlooking a raging fire, two breaths away from closing the distance between your egotistic, flirty partner and yourself. That's not confliction – it's insanity.

And Marinette is feeling pretty crazy.

The weekend comes faster than she'd like, especially since Alya made plans with her mom. It's a Saturday, and Marinette's parents are in the bakery tonight, trying to fill an exceptionally large order for an upcoming banquet before the work load gets out of hand. They usually separate work from nights they could spend at home as a family, but the client paid a rush fee, so they're limited on time.

Marinette stretches out over her bed, staring hard at the ceiling. It's more difficult than she anticipated to convince herself that what happened several days earlier wasn't entirely irrefutable. She'd been escaping the subject all week – cramming in time with Alya, focusing (for once) on school, spending spare hours in the bakery with her parents. She was even making attempts at talking to Adrien – if slipping in a few greetings to her computer screen counted.

But now she's alone, the weekend is here, and there is no homework to work on or akumas to fight. So the only thing left to do is think.

And being left alone with her thoughts isn't safe. Especially when the prime candidate vying for her attention is someone she'd rather not let her mind linger on.

_Chat had a head injury_ , she reasons, _He could forget about it._

The likelihood of Chat forgetting _anything_ about a possible kiss with Ladybug seems absurd, but so does the fact that he hasn't had any recollection about the Heartbreaker incident.

"Or I could deny it and let him assume it was a dream," she mumbles.

Something small and warm drifts over the comforter, coming to rest on her chest. Tikki yawns widely, blinking owlishly through nap-glazed eyes.

" _It's a Saturday_ ," she defended a few hours previously, " _And there aren't any Akumas._ "

The little kwami rubs at her eyes, frowning from under her mitts.

"Marinette, dismissing problems you don't know how to address is a bad idea. It's going to cause you serious trouble in the long-run."

_If trouble is black and has an infuriating smirk, I think it's already here._

"If you have any suggestions, I'm all ears," the girl says dejectedly.

"Why don't you try talking to him?"

Marinette sits up, her eyes rounding.

"What?"

Tikki touches Marinette's clasped hands, patting them reassuringly.

"Up until now you've run whenever there's an issue with Chat Noir. He's your _partner_ , Mari. Communication is important."

Marinette furrows her brow, her nose scrunching up in irritation.

"He doesn't know _how_ to communicate, Tikki. His idea of conversation is bad puns and excessive flirting."

The kwami is quiet for several long minutes, scrutinizing her charge's face. There's something in those blue eyes, something beneath the uncertainty and frustration. It's been many years, but after centuries of learning the mind-sets and feelings of heroines through history, it's not difficult to decipher a single teenage girl's thought process.

"What if," Tikki says slowly, "You don't meet him as Ladybug."

Marinette startles, hesitation flashing across her gaze. But before she can open her mouth, the kwami continues.

"You said he doesn't communicate well with Ladybug outside of battle – he doesn't know how to _focus_ ," she takes a breath, "But what if he spoke with Marinette?"

The two stare at each other for several beats.

Her immediate thought is of the night, over a week ago, where the boy appeared at her window. His wicked grin at the posters over her wall, and the heated banter they shared. The conversation on her bed, the pillow fight that transpired, and inevitably…

"He's too much of a flirt – no matter who I meet him as."

Tikki considers her through curious eyes. She doesn't refute the statement, but it's an expression that draws through Marinette, threading indecision through her thoughts.

She's grateful when the subject slips away, and Tikki falls back asleep. The kwami is quiet during the cold months, more reserved than usual. It could be her nature – being a little bug that's unaccustomed to cold weather. When they go out, she wears the tiny sweater and hat that Marinette made for her, snuggling into the warm lining at the bottom of the purse. But it doesn't reduce her sleepy disposition entirely.

It's nights like these that make Marinette grateful for the season. Tikki doesn't have the energy to argue or reprimand her, and she manages to ease out of conversations like these easier than if it were any other time of the year.

Marinette leaves the kwami in the thick recesses of her blankets, toeing down the ladder to her chaise. She settles against its plush back, pulling out the current project she's tucked underneath the furniture.

The black yarn is soft, and she smoothes her hands over the unfinished cowl. Its partner sits in the basket under the lounge, a deep red cowl meant for her.

She tugs the crocheting needle through the pitch black material, marveling at the yielding loops, the fuzzy yarn threading under her fingers. Her eyes follow the slip and tug, the process illuminated by the warm light of her lamp. She becomes engrossed, digits dancing over the material. Tug, loop, tug, loop, tug…

It takes form under her hands, and her mind wanders.

She imagines the soft brush of material against Chat's chin, the warm pink in his nose and cheeks when he breaks into an appreciative smile. The way it would fall over his shoulders, hugging his neck, light strands of hair contrasting the shadowy fabric. Silky blond tresses, disheveled, falling unceremoniously into his face, guarding those brilliant, _green_ …

**Eyes**.

Marinette yelps. It's loud and broken, escaping her lips in a strangled noise that follows her to the floor as she sprawls across the rug.

Her heart leaps into her throat, slamming hard against her vocal chords. It takes several long, agonizing seconds before she can form any coherent thoughts, let alone words.

A very amused, curious hero crouches on her chaise, inches from where her face had just been. And if his smile is any indication, he fully anticipated her surprise.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she hisses.

He watches her rise from the floor, brows arched and gaze glowing with interest.

"Do you have any idea how creepy and uncouth it is to sneak into a young girl's room in the dead of night?"

Marinette brushes off her knees, wincing as she turns to look at him. His smile doesn't budge, but there's something else there. Something that wedges in her stomach and grasps hold of her thoughts, allowing the next words to die on her tongue.

"I'm sorry I startled you," he says.

The words sound genuine, but the heat in his eyes is questionable. There's something particularly impish in the line of his posture, and Marinette's irritation gives way to disconcerted suspicion. Chat leans forward, and she unconsciously stills, eyes torn between the unfinished cowl in front of him and the sparkle in his gaze.

"How would you like to go on an adventure with me, Princess?"

The room is eerily quiet, and Marinette stares at him.

"What?"

"An adventure," he repeats, "With me."

"Yes," she says slowly, "I heard you, but I have no idea what you mean."

He sits then, pulling one leg up to his chin. The other falls over the side of the lounge, kicking idly as he rests an arm on his knee.

He pitches his voice low, and the tone is gentle, the words carefully strung together in a way she imagines he'd been going over mentally for some time now.

"I realize I made a real mess of things the other night, and I'd like to fix it," he pauses, frowning, "We're sort of friends…right? I mean…I'd like to consider us friends."

His gaze falls to the basket on the floor, eyes drifting of the assorted yarns.

"You've always treated me like a real person. And the other night… I'm just…I'm sorry it's taken me so long to–"

She raises her hand, "It's okay. Really."

He lifts his eyes, and they stare at each other openly. He's made no move to flirt, or to touch her, and it's strange. She doesn't recognize that humility, or the way he ducks his head to hide a smile. Something is off, and she's can't put her finger on it.

"You transformed and came all this way," she says slowly, "Just to…say that?"

His brows disappear into his hair, "What makes you think I transformed just to come here? Maybe I was on patrol."

She knew very well he wasn't on patrol. The two of them had just decided earlier that evening (via transformation and communication through their devices) that they would be taking a rain check on patrolling this weekend. She had exams to study for, and he claimed to have plans of his own. And, after what occurred, distance was a safe and welcome consistency.

And yet here he is, perched on her chaise, illuminated by soft light from the window.

_I was those plans_ , she realizes.

"I want to make it up to you," he says, "And I figured doing it outside the confines of your bedroom might be a good idea."

"You want to…abduct me?"

Chat's eyes widen, and she nearly jumps when the laughter bursts from him. It's jarring and familiar, and her attention lingers on his lips as they draw back over a brilliant smile.

"I'm not immune to pepper spray, if that would make you feel more comfortable."

Marinette drops her gaze, "How do you think Ladybug would feel about you sweeping some random girl off into the night?"

A pause. There's hesitation in his tone, in the waver of his expression as he glances away.

"Why would it matter? She's not my…" he clears his throat, "We're not…together."

There's something agonizing in the way he says it. In the hitch in his voice, in the flash of something she recognizes and _knows_ as it flits across his face. Because she was there. She shared that moment, and she nearly took part in it. She _knows_.

Why would it matter?

In his eyes she's Marinette.

Marinette took him into her room, shared blankets and hot chocolate with him, told him one of her greatest secrets, and indulged in far more intimacy than she should have. Marinette stroked his hair, grabbed hold of his collar, and kissed him senseless. In one night, she gave him more than Ladybug had shared in the entirety of their partnership.

_Why would it matter?_

It shouldn't.

"Chat," she glances toward the window, "It's _freezing_ outside."

There's vulnerability in his expression that she hasn't glimpsed as Marinette. It's unfamiliar and disarming, and it's gone almost as quickly, ghosting across his face as he replaces it with a broad grin. Her stomach drops as he leans forward, eyes glowing.

"I'll keep you warm, Princess."

It should have been playful. It is for a moment – mischievous, teasing…

Until their gazes lock, and they're staring back at one another again, and Marinette can hardly grasp onto her sensibility. Because there's that _look_ ; the same one that burned into her over a week ago, in this same room, unraveling her morality. It goes beyond kitty eyes, or a place of endearment. It swoops out from under that realm and delves into the uninhibited, rich terrain of _need_ and breathless hunger.

And there's nothing satiable about the way Chat looks at her, or the way she feels when she allows herself to indulge.

"Unless you _want_ to stay here…" he murmurs.

_Why would it matter?_

It shouldn't.

_But it does._

When she reaches for her coat, it's an act of willpower.

________________________________________

The skyline of Paris is different somehow.

The suit's absence is exposing, over a hundred feet above the ground, arcing over the buildings and streets below. Her heart stutters, hands fisting against Chat's shoulder blades.

She shoved him out of her room long enough to change clothes and urge a drowsy kwami into her purse. Tikki mumbled out incoherent protests before snuggling into the warm, soft lining, and Marinette crawled out onto the balcony.

In the past, she'd had plenty of physical contact with Chat. He'd snake an arm around her waist, catapulting them into the air with his staff on countless occasions. It was a part of the camaraderie and teamwork, and Marinette had grown senseless to the casual, thoughtless touches.

Until recently.

His hand at the small of her back, and the press of their chests, was enough to issue a dark flush up her neck. Chat eased into the embrace, offering a reassuring smile as he extended his staff.

And then there was nothing but sky.

Dark, endless, starry sky, swallowing them as they plummeted. The catch of Chat's staff on concrete, plunging forward, wind snapping against their clothes.

Marinette had flown countless times over these rooftops, soared into the lights, felt the night closing around her. But it was never like this.

She could feel the bite of Chat's claws against her back, digging in, straining to keep a firm hold on her. And she realized it was never like this for him, either. Up until now, they'd been equals, running side by side, two parts of the same whole.

Now she's clutching onto him, palms pressing into his back, breath puffing against his throat. It's not as cold as she remembers it being the other night, and she wonders if it's because she's wearing more layers – or because he kept his promise of keeping her warm.

"You're a lot calmer than I thought you'd be," he says lowly.

His voice is against her ear, and she's grateful she can't see his face. Kitty eyes are one thing, but she'd rather not be victim to that other, particular brand of bewitchment.

"Maybe I'm a natural," she replies coyly.

Chat chuckles, but the noise is lost in the wind, breaking off as his feet hit the shingles of another roof.

"So," she ventures, "What do you have planned?"

"Did I mention planning something?"

_Oops._

He grins widely, "I thought it would be fun to just wing it."

"Wing it?"

When he responds, she can hear the lilt of excitement in his tone.

"A surprise."

_You totally planned it._

"If your idea of a surprise is large and bent on destroying Paris, I don't think I'd like to stick around for that."

"Not cut-out for hero work?" he teases.

Marinette presses her smile into the sleek collar of his suit.

"Something like that."

"Don't worry," he says, "I'm an exceptional knight when a princess is in danger. A perfectly chiseled body looks good in shining armor."

"When you find someone with one, let me know," she shoots back.

This time, she does hear his laugh.


	8. Chapter 8

Chat doesn't have plans.

His strategy stretched as far as convincing Marinette to leave the house with him, and he hadn't anticipated succeeding. And now, with her pressed to his chest and clinging to his shoulders hundreds of feet above the streets of Paris, he realizes that winging it is his best (and only) option.

He hooks his baton into the loose stone of an alley wall, slipping down the railings and into the narrow, dark space below. Paris' distinctly stale, dank scent finds its home here in the crevices of the aging buildings, and Marinette wrinkles her nose as their feet touch cobblestone.

"When you said you wanted to 'make it up to me', I didn't envision this," she says.

He laughs, "This is just to stay out of sight. I don't want to show up in the middle of the street, where anyone with an open cell phone could snap a shot of you and put your privacy in jeopardy."

"That's considerate," she muses, "For someone that mooches off my hospitality and abducts me late at night."

"You're fairly willing for a victim."

Marinette crosses her arms.

"You're fairly pushy for a 'knight in shining armor'."

The boy hooks his baton onto his belt, offering a wide smile.

"What else is a gentleman to do if the princess is playing hard-to-get?"

She opens her mouth to say something, but then thinks better of it, resigning herself to a heavy sigh.

They stand behind a café, the back entrance lit faintly through the glossed window pane. Her gaze follows him as he crosses to a pile of bags thrown next to a group of garbage cans. Marinette's brows draw together, a puzzled expression crossing her face.

Before she can say anything, he rips open one of the bags, retrieving a backpack. Her reaction is equally amusing, as the bewilderment in her eyes turns dubious.

"You _did_ plan something."

He shakes his head, "No, I usually stash bags like this around the city."

Marinette looks at him, and the quiet that ensues is followed by his hesitant smile.

"Emergencies happen, and with this job…it's just smart to be prepared."

Adrien tugs on the zipper, revealing the contents. Among various – and questionable – supplies, he pulls out a hoodie and some sweatpants. Marinette's eyes follow him, amusement playing over her lips.

When he pulls the hood over his face, she laughs openly.

"This is your idea of a brilliant disguise? You look like you're about to go rob a convenience store."

Chat throws the bag over his shoulder, crossing to her in two strides. And then he's looping his arm around her shoulder, guiding her out toward the street.

"Maybe I'll steal your heart," he teases.

He meant it to sound silly, to be branded under his particular brand of cheesy jokes and inopportune puns. But her face warms under the street lights, and Chat's gaze lingers on the tinge of pink, causing the following quiet to stretch too long. And the moment for a comeback is lost.

Marinette elbows him, but it's too late, and he can see that she knows it.

She plucks his hand off her shoulder, and he lets his arm fall as she turns to him, fixing him with speculative eyes.

"So, where are we heading?"

"Only to the best place in Paris," he says.

She raises a hand, "That's a matter of opinion."

Chat laughs. He's only glimpsed this side of her a few times. The opinionated, outspoken Marinette. The girl that is a far contrast from the shy, blundering classmate and isn't afraid to banter with him.

Even though he's a superhero that fights evil. Even though he has magical powers and is regarded as the other half of Paris' hope and future. Even though he's is splashed all over the news and social media every second of every day.

Marinette isn't intimated by it, and she doesn't fawn over him.

It's absolutely fascinating.

"Oh, I think you'll see it from my _purr_ spective."

This time, she doesn't hesitate. The following expression, pointedly unamused and exasperated, twinges familiarity in the back of his mind. He shoves it down, shooting her a trademark, shit-eating grin.

They follow the warmly lit streets – past the Rue du Bac, led under streetlamps and dimly illuminated signs in store windows. Marinette is quiet at first. Chat leans past her, pointing to noteworthy architecture, expanding on the history behind it.

When he was homeschooled, Gabriel would require many areas of vigorous education. Schooling in history, remarkable artists through both the architectural and fashion empire.

_"To understand the seam of the dress, or the very soul of Parisian art, one must understand who breathed life into its foundations,"_ his father once said.

It wasn't all boring.

In the towering buildings and spiraling structures, Adrien found an appreciation for it. He couldn't count on one hand how many times his father's incessant lessons had come in handy – when he was hiding from the Gorilla, or winding his way through dark portions of the city as Chat Noir.

Marinette isn't entirely enthralled with his remarks on the composition of the buildings, but she listens politely, nodding and offering her own input when there is an opening.

The conversation grows easy.

It falls into place when they pass one of the dark, closed markets. When Adrien gestures toward the stalls and speaks of the fabrics one can find there. Her expression softens, a new interest coursing through her tone and body language. His eyes draw over the tilt of her lips as she chatters animatedly, the wave of her hands as she describes the patterns in her notebooks.

And when she dissolves into an embarrassed, flustered disposition, he feels his chest tightening.

They turn onto Rue de Babylone, and Chat shoves his hands in his pockets, watching her dive into another explanative about the various ways to stitch. She comes up short as they pause in front of an old building, shadowed beneath the weight of the dark street.

He glances between her and the looming structure, and he can see the intent in her eyes. It's the mark of another artist; the pressing curiosity to know and discover.

"This is the La Pagode," he says.

There's a fondness in his voice as he regards the familiar building.

"It was erected in 1896. It's a real pagoda – some features even being imported from Japan. It was originally used as a ballroom – funny story, actually, is that it was originally a gift to the designer's wife, who–"

Marinette stares at him, and he clears his throat.

"Anyway, it was converted to a 400-seat cinema in 1931. These days it's used to screen old Japanese movies on occasion, or to house hired events."

Chat extends a hand to her.

"Tonight, it's for our viewing pleasure."

He can hear their harsh breaths, filling the hollowed quiet of the cold, winter night. Marinette's pea coat is buttoned to her throat, but he can still see the tremble of her lips. The set of her brows – hesitant, thoughtful.

"It's warmer inside," he whispers.

She meets his eyes, and he knows that getting her out of her house was only the first step. This is the real decision – the real acceptance of sharing this night with him.

And when her hand slips into his palm, it doesn't matter that they're separated by gloves. He can still feel the heat travel through his fingers and rush to his head.

______________________

"La Pagode?"

Marinette's voice is soft, but it feels shattering in the still theatre.

The viewing room is large, swallowing them almost entirely in the warm lighting and velvety seats. Ornate carvings trail over the intricate woodwork, depicting lovely flowers and highlighting the exquisite light fixtures that snake up the walls.

Adrien has been here many times before. He's sunk into the seats, letting the rich wood and natural imagery consume him. But here, sharing it with someone else, is somehow different. It feeds some part of him, to see Marinette's face glow the way his must have the first time he walked in here. To see the enchantment in her eyes, the pleasantly surprised form of her lips as they shape a breathless 'o'.

"I've lived here my whole life," she says, "And yet I've never seen this place."

He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, "I discovered it on accident."

Marinette looks at him, that same curious light in her gaze.

"I was running from the G– ah… my Grandma. And I ended up here."

The lie is small, but it still feels uncomfortable on his lips.

"Your Grandma must have been a sight when she found you."

He laughs, "Oh, she was."

Adrien's bodyguard had been so angry that he'd nearly picked up one of the employees behind the counter and threw them. On retrospect, it was comical.

Marinette reaches out, running appreciating fingertips over the geometric framing.

"Are you ready for the show?"

His attention lingers on the hair that escapes her pigtails and wisps against the soft skin of her neck. When she turns to meet his eyes, he takes an interest in the wood under her hand.

"The show?" she asks.

He flashes her a smile before clasping her wrist, tugging her gently toward the doors.

Beauty is not wasted on the interior of the Pagode. Even the foyer is striking, from the lovely, swirling gold patterns to the chandeliers.

Chat crosses the concessions, winding around the ropes to hop across the counter top. Marinette leans forward to watch him, elbows on the smooth surface, as he rummages through the selection of candy.

"So you _are_ robbing."

He tosses a box of chocolate candies toward her.

"Of course not. I have every intention to pay."

She laughs, "An IOU?"

Adrien opens the register, slipping the cash into it.

"See? Totally not a criminal act."

"Aside from breaking and entering," she points out.

He feigns shock, "Who said I broke in?"

When he leaps over the counter, she eyes the box in her hands.

"What's this for? Are we going to see a movie? I thought we were going to-"

He lays a hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her toward the viewing room.

"All in good time, Princess"

She doesn't look pleased to be silenced, but she concedes when he pauses at the door, gesturing to the hall.

"Go find a seat – I will be right behind you."

He can tell it pains her to not ask why, but he inwardly triumphs when she shakes her head and disappears into the viewing room.

Adrien practiced setting up these old films. He hid in the reel room on a few occasions, including the last one, when the Gorilla grew angry at the employee behind the concession stand. He can see Marinette curled up in the one of the seats in the room below, her feet folded under her as she tears open the candy box. As the room darkens, she starts for a moment, glancing around. When he shouts down to her, she relaxes visibly.

The rest of the theatre is silent, and the sound from the movie is louder than he had anticipated. The opening music drifts across the open seats, a scratch of nostalgia in the black and white shots.

He slides into the seat next to Marinette. The light from the screen plays across her features, illuminating the soft curves of her cheeks and the blue of her irises. When she offers her candy to him, her smile is indulging.

"Since we're already accomplices."

He's never tasted anything sweeter.

The movie usually drags on, but tonight time escapes him. His hood is down, and he could see every expression, every movement from his peripheral vision. The brush of her elbow, the rise and fall of her chest.

Distracting. Fascinating.

Every breath she draws travels through him, coiling in his chest until it's suffocating. He's never been so aware of anyone. Aware of every small gesture, every minuscule bat of their eye and shift of their body. He can't concentrate on anything.

It had never been like this with Marinette.

There had been only Ladybug. And in the dark theatre, Adrien's heart plummets at the realization. He is here with his classmate instead of the love of his life. He'd come so close to kissing his lady, came inches away from something he'd been working for over the course of the last few years.

And yet, here he is. With Marinette.

_It doesn't matter_ , he tells himself.

_It doesn't matter, because Ladybug doesn't want you._

It shouldn't matter. But it does.

Because even though Ladybug had denied him – even though she hadn't accepted any of his advances up till now, he'd still _promised_ to love her.

She depended on that.

_Ladybug wouldn't deny you a chance at love with someone else for her own expense_ , he argues.

But it's still at the back of his mind, nagging and demanding.

And when the doors at the back of the room open, footsteps coming down the aisle, Chat straightens in surprise. He twists around, eyes blowing wide as the stranger starts shouting at them.

He grabs Marinette's hand, yanking her after him as they duck past the stranger and through the doors. The man lets out a blundering exclamation as they dash past him, escaping his rising voice. They're running through the foyer and over the plush carpet, past the gilded walls and out the elegant pane glass, ignoring the sounds of pursuit.

The hero grabs her by the shoulders, dragging her against his chest as he stoops behind a line of bushes. The doors throw open a short distance from their hiding spot, feet slapping against the concrete. Chat's heart is pounding, his head light.

"The hell," the man utters angrily.

The words are sharp, and Chat sucks in an unsteady breath, struggling to stay quiet. His pulse is thumping in his ears, and it's so loud he fears it'll give them away.

Painstaking seconds pass as the stranger pauses, letting out an exasperated sigh. Adrien can hear shuffling, and what sounds like the clicking of a device – a phone, maybe.  
His suspicions are confirmed when the man begins to speak to seemingly no one.

"…yeah, a bunch of dumb kids again. I don't think they took anything, but I'll check the register."

Chat peers through a break in the leaves, spying the man's shadow, cast across the ground.

"It looked like a couple. Probably some boy trying to impress a girl…" Another sigh, "No, I won't call the police."

Marinette stiffens against him at the mention of the law, but when the man disappears back into the building, she sags visibly.

They sit there on the ground for several long seconds, foliage enveloping their presence and shadowing them. Chat groans, leaning forward until his forehead bumps the top of her head.

Her initial laugh is soft, and it takes him by surprise.

She trembles against him, and then she's laughing quietly, shaking all over to contain the hysteria.

"So you- you did- you _did_ break in."

And that's it.

That's all it takes for the panic, the adrenaline and the anxiety to rush to the surface and break through his lips. He's laughing, too. Laughing because the entire absurdity of the situation is staggering. Laughing because it's probably two in the morning, and they're in the middle of Paris, crouched in the bushes outside an old cinema and hiding from an angry manager.

Laughing because she's laughing, and the sound of it is contagious.

Laughing because it feels good to have her against him like this, and if he stops and sobers, he knows he'll be painfully aware of it.

And he does sober.

But the following question, the teasing, is tumbling out of his mouth before he even registers it. The Chat Noir persona is breaking through, arresting the predicament before he can overthink anything.

" _Have_ I impressed you, Princess?"

She scoffs, "I'm impressed that we haven't been caught."

Marinette lets out an exasperated noise.

"Shouldn't it have been locked? How did you even get all those lights on?"

She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Adrien wiggles knowing brows at her.

"A magician never shares his secrets."

She narrows her eyes, but it's half-hearted, and he can see it in the smile that she's fighting.

"However," he leans in, whispering conspiratorially, "If a lovely girl were to offer a secret of her own for a 'quid pro quo', then it would constitute a proper exchange."

They stare back at one another for a beat, and though he can see in the dark, he knows that she can't. Her eyes are wide, hair disheveled and falling in her eyes. Her gaze is searching, hesitant. It's spiraling from playful to something else, and he know he should snuff it out.

"And what sort of exchange would that be?"

He needs to stop. He _knows_ that.

But that night – that kiss – haunts him. It's followed him relentlessly, weeding into every day of the past week. Worming into his private moments, and even into hero work.

She's like a taste that he can't get out of his mouth, a drug that he should never have tried. One more hit could quench his thirst, or it could ruin him.

"You tell me a secret," he breathes, "And I'll tell you mine."

They should get up.

There's no need to be here anymore. They're hiding from their demons, from the responsibilities and convictions that loom over their heads. And if they stay here long enough, Adrien knows it won't be enough.

"Quid pro quo means that the exchange should be of equal value," she says quietly.

She knows.

She knows why they're both still here.

It claws through his chest, and he can't grasp onto coherent thoughts. Has it been seconds since the man left? Minutes?

"Then you can change your question," he says, "If you want to."

Silence, save for their breaths.

"You say it first," she whispers.

His heart is racing against her splayed hand, and surely she can feel it. Surely she can feel it straining against her palm, threatening to leap straight out of his chest.

The words tumble from his lips, rough and uncertain. They husk through his throat, betraying the collected exterior he's been fighting so hard to hold onto. And as he says them, he can feel her tense.

"Have you been thinking about that night?"

No, not the words he really wanted to say. Not the question that has been _burning_ in his thoughts. But close – unbearably close.

Her voice is uneven, and it tears through him.

God, she's _flustered_. The reality of it, of how this proximity (and the question) effects her, is almost enough to consume the implications behind her response.

"Have you?"

And together, nearly in the same breath, the word falls between them.

"Yes."

_It shouldn't matter._

But it does.

It matters when his hand comes up to cup her face – when his fingers lace through her hair and draws her toward him. It matters when she lets out a breathy sigh, and it rushes through his veins like a shot of adrenaline. It matters when she lifts a hand to push feebly at his chest, and he nearly lets her.

It matters, but he doesn't care.

"Chat, what are you doing?"

It matters – but not right now.

His voice rasps over her cheek, and she shivers against him. This time, he knows it's not from the cold.

"Accomplices, right?"

This time, when his lips crash against hers, it's not warm and languid.

It's hot, and it grasps onto his heart, wrenching it into double time. The pliant bow of her lips, the delicious noise of surprise-

She tears away weakly, "Chat, we shouldn't-"

But he's lost. He's lost, and he doesn't care – not right now.

When he drags her in and seizes her mouth, her protests are replaced with an incoherent moan, and it makes him breathless.

His hands are in her hair, deftly pulling the ties until it falls in loose, soft strands. She grasps onto him, hooking her fingers in the material of his hoodie, and it isn't enough.

Last time, this ended badly. Last time, she pushed him away. This night was an apology, and now it could dissolve into another regret.

But he doesn't regret the press of her thigh between his legs, or the delicious noises she makes when he glides his tongue over the seam of her mouth. He doesn't regret the burn of her palm on his skin, or the arch of her back as she leans into him.

He's unapologetic, and he _won't_ be sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

Marinette has always considered herself a sensible person. Eccentric occasionally, but always sensible.

She was sensible when she took Chat into her home, when she allowed him shelter from a brewing storm. And she was sensible when she pulled away from the incident that followed.

During the entire night they'd spent together, she'd been relatively sensible.

But now, she's truly had a lapse in sanity.

There's nothing sensible about the way Chat kisses her, or the way she lets him. And there's absolutely nothing rational in the many, many kisses that follow.  
Because Marinette has lost her senses.

His hands are on her waist, sliding under the material of her coat, fisting in her shirt. And when his mouth moves to her throat, everything slips from her grasp, and she's falling. Falling into a haze, into a senseless need that she can't even pinpoint.

Her hands card through his hair, drawing him impossibly closer, past the barriers she's built between them. Past morality, and whatever reasoning she's carefully laid out up till now.  
She's supposed to stop this, to deny him again, to make excuses-

But she can't remember why.

Gloved fingers are raking down the line of her side, over her hip, grasping at the curve of her thigh. Somehow she's even closer now, practically in his lap, and she can't bring herself to care.

She _should_ care.

Where is Tikki? She should be zipping out right now to be her voice of reason, to remind her that this is her partner, her friend, and they _can't_ , they _shouldn't_ -

But God, he feels good. And there's that other voice in the back of her mind, the one that tells her she _could_ lean a little closer. That she _could_ take his face into her hands, pressing her lips to the line of his jaw, and relish in the noise of surprise and pleasure that escapes him. She _should_ see how much farther she can take this, how much farther she can tease the boundaries between friend and…something. Something different, something delicious and demanding to be ventured.

And as his back digs into the old wall of the cinema, she _could_ hitch her knee over his leather hip, indulging in the rise and fall of his chest, the sweet taste of chocolate on his lips and the pressing enclosure of the darkness as it swallows them further down into a sense of impropriety.

A deep, gravelly noise travels through his throat, kneading the growing burn in her stomach. He catches her bottom lip between his teeth, and the heat swells, threatening to consume her.

They're on the edge of something, and she knows that one more kiss, one more groan or shudder, could send them reeling over.

And this time, she almost doesn't stop.

It's the manager slamming the door to the cinema that snaps them back into reality. Chat startles against her, and when his bright eyes fly open, she can see the glowing irises, the slit pupils, blown wide. Here, in the dark space against the wall and the shrubbery, his gaze is vivid and unfocused.

Her coat has slid down her shoulders, hair disheveled and falling loosely around her chin. She realizes it the moment his hungry gaze settles on her, flicking from one detail to another.

It's nearly enough to draw them back in, but then the man is cursing as he fumbles with his keys, the jangling echoing over the stone and glass of the old building.

They stare at one another for several long, agonizing seconds. Gulping down the breaths they'd lost to each other, desperately trying to regain their sense of time and responsibility. It's incredibly difficult, with her thighs at his hips, and the allure of what they previously indulged in lying between them.

But when the last smack of footsteps fade into the distance, Marinette is already peeling herself away from him, escaping the position before the temptation cages her.

___________________________

Her mind is somewhere else, rushing and tumbling for reasons and excuses and _something_ to explain away what just occurred. She wants to go home, to bury herself a mile into her blankets and sheets, to let sleep pacify her thoughts.

Chat keeps pace with her. They lapse into silence, both unsure what to say or where to start. So they wear a path through the streets, past the markets and store fronts, over the cobblestone, until they find their way back toward the alleyway.

Marinette's too ashamed to speak.

She told him no before, turned him away for the sake of Adrien. And yet, here she is again, making the same choices and indulging in her love-sick partner.

The shame swells up in her throat again, and she swallows it down. After the last week, she'd almost been able to move past it, to allow herself some form of forgiveness. But now…

She can't seem to escape Chat.

She wants to shove him, to yell at him for not leaving her be. For goading her into coming out with him tonight, for teasing her, for being so cheeky and irritating and-

Her eyes slant toward him, taking in the shadowed curve of his face, obscured by the hood. The blond hair falling precariously around the mask.

_Infuriating would be more suitable._

She averts her eyes as his gaze lifts to her face, humiliation crawling up her neck.

When she trips forward, lost in thought, he's already reaching to steady her. Marinette flushes a shade darker, and the sigh that escapes him is nothing short of heavy.

"Listen, you don't-"

He clears his throat, a beat passing.

"You don't have to be so tense. If you don't want me to touch you – if that makes you uncomfortable, then I won't."

His tone is pitched low, but she can hear the shame there. How one person can be so flirty, so irritating, so alluring, and so _gentle_ all at once, is enough to throw her. She's rarely glimpsed this side of Chat Noir; the side that's not a façade or a projection.

She shifts her weight as his hands fall.

"Look, I just…I can't…I can't let this happen. There's someone else, and…"

Marinette sucks in a breath, wringing her hands.

"Your prince."

The resignation in his eyes pits in her stomach.

"Yes."

She worries at her lip, eyes falling to her hands.

"It may not play out, but in the end, you have to hold onto your hand. You can't change the cards you were dealt," she says softly, "You just have to let them…fall where they may."

The silence that falls between them blankets the atmosphere. She can see his mind working, see the thoughts rolling into place behind his eyes. Lamplight pools over the concrete a foot away, and from here she can see the glint of it beneath the shadow of his lashes, in the set of his mouth.

He nods, almost to himself, and then he's turning away to walk toward the alley.

Marinette watches him – the long, fluid shift of his gait, the indecisive set of his shoulders.

He deposits his clothes in the same bag, tying it off and stowing it away in the previous hiding spot.  
This time, he stoops low, peering at her over his shoulder. And when she climbs onto his back, he remains silent, hooking his arms under her legs as he extends his staff.

The alley swoops out from under them, and Marinette is leaning into his shoulder, arms looped loosely around his neck.

This shouldn't be so comfortable, or feel so natural.

It's the night sky, the rush that comes with the Miraculous, she tells herself. It's the time she's spent with Chat, racing over Paris, laughing and making play at patrols that turn fruitless. It's the familiarity of it, and that's all.

That's _all_.

But it wasn't all earlier, under the shade of the withered trees and cold snow. It wasn't all then, and it isn't all now.

Marinette squeezes his shoulders, eyes falling closed as she forcefully buries the thoughts.

_Adrien._

A boy that she's steadfast and loyal to the affections of, and someone that has never and _may_ never return them. Someone that consumes her thoughts, her heart, and now her choices.

She loses herself in the steady pace of Chat's stride. The click of his staff extending, the smack of it against concrete. Like a heartbeat, repeating, repeating, repeating…

Her head is light, and she's lulled into a half-sleep. When he leaps onto her roof, looping over the railing and onto her balcony, she barely stirs.  
Chat eases her down, twisting around to catch her petite, sagging frame.

"Marinette," he whispers.

She grasps at his arms, cracking her eyes open, blinking blearily up at him.

"Hm?"

A chuckle rumbles through his chest.

"We're at your house."

"Hm."

He holds her carefully by the shoulders, as though handling something delicate.

This time softer, "Marinette."

"Home," she murmurs, "Right, right."

She stifles a yawn, straightening. Dawn is a handful of hours away, and she's ready to collapse on her bed.

When she looks at him, there's something guarded in his expression, but she's far too tired to discern it.

"Thank you for accompanying me, Princess," he says.

It sounds forced, decisive. There's something else, and he's pushing it down.

His hands drop, and another silence thickens between them. Then he's moving away, toward the railing.

She should say something, but an apology doesn't seem to fit. Not here, not now; but it never does. And then it hits her – the repetition of it all. A nearly identical situation to what happened before, and this time, he may not come back.

And there will be no apologies once she's behind the mask.

She moves to follow him, to step in his direction, but then he's swinging around and covering the distance between them, coming to plant himself in front of her. Marinette startles, but he doesn't touch her.

Instead, he leans down, eyes level.

"We're friends, right? Accomplices."

She's slow to respond, too tired to quickly process his words. So she nods mutely, brows drawing together.

"Quid pro quo," he says, "You want your prince, and I want my lady. I think we both deserve an equal shot with the person we like."

Marinette blinks owlishly at him, and he draws a hand through his hair.

"I was just thinking, we could help each other, and at the end of it all…"

She whispers, "We let the cards fall where they may."

They stare at each other as the seconds pass, contemplating.

Her eyes feel heavy, and it's too cold, too windy for the knowledge of the arrangement to really sink in. Their breaths puff between them, steaming in the frigid weather.

It's supposed to snow again within the next week, and after tonight, she's ready to follow Tikki's example and sleep the season away. Marinette shivers, and this time, a yawn really does escape her. The laugh that breaks past his lips is light, shattering whatever tension had lain between them before.

"I'll tell you what – I'll come back later. We'll talk more about it this upcoming week; you're too tired to make any plans right now."

She grumbles, but it's cut-off by another yawn.

When he edges toward the railing, she's already opening her mouth, ready to protest the arrangement she never agreed to.

"Get some beauty sleep, Princess."

He's already disappearing over the side and into the early morning, a shadow over the cityscape.

She watches him go, standing there for a moment, trying to grasp onto her surroundings. But the wind snaps against her face, biting her skin, and she's already reaching for the hatch.

"Stupid, stupid…cat," she mutters, climbing onto her bed.

When she sheds her coat, the warm air in her room envelopes her skin. She tosses her chilled clothes somewhere onto the floor.  
The room is just as she left it, everything in its place – including the abandoned project on her chaise.

Tikki lets out a small noise of protest as Marinette scoops her out of the lining of her purse, depositing her on the plush material of the comforter. The little kwami nestles into it as though she never left, and in her mind, she may not have.

Marinette snuggles in next to her, grateful for the sheets, body heavy and mind leaden with thoughts she's far too tired to acknowledge. Hibernation has never sounded so appealing.

"Stupid…cat…" she breathes, drifting.

______________________________

Alya is not pleased.

Adrien has returned to school after a week-long absence. When he twists around in his seat, his eyes are bright and his complexion is healthy. Alya doesn't miss the way her friend stiffens, or the quiet resignation that follows.

The lunch bell tolls, and as they cross to the bakery, Alya pounces.

"Okay, either you spill, or I go tell Nino that we're dying for a double date."

Marinette sputters, eyes wide.

"Oh, don't act so surprised! After that trip to the skating rink, and your little walk together to get his head looked at, I thought everything would be totally fine," The girl fixes her with a narrow look, "But he's been gone for a week, and you're still acting like he's contagious with something fatal."

They duck through the front entrance, and a little bell chimes, announcing their presence. Marinette's parents shower them with warm greetings, her father offering a plate of freshly baked goods as they make their way to the kitchen.

"Thanks, Papa."

She rises on her toes to peck him on the cheek, stuffing the sweet in her mouth.

"There's sandwiches on the table," her mother shouts after them.

Alya settles onto one of the chairs, dropping her bag. Marinette licks her fingers, her stomach rumbling as she plucks a sandwich off the plate.

"You're not getting out of this," her friend states, "So _spill_."

The young hero frowns, tearing a piece of bread off. She chews it thoughtfully.

"Are you hungry?"

Alya leans forward, steepling her hands in front of her.

"I hear Nino knows some good restaurants."

"Okay, okay!" the seamstress blurts.

She swallows, glaring at her sandwich as though it's the responsible party. Alya watches her, scrutinizing.

"There…might be someone."

In all the time she's known her best friend, she's never seen the girl's jaw unhinge the way it does – or the glint of excitement shift into her eyes so swiftly. Shocked might be too kind a word.

"Someone? Like, _someone_?"

"No, like Mrs. Bustier," Marinette deadpans.

"Okay," Alya practically bounces, "Is it someone I know?"

Her stomach drops as she imagines the Ladyblog, and the many pictures her friend has snapped of Ladybug and her partner within the past year.

"Not personally, no."

Alya's eyes blow wide, "Oh. My. _God._ "

"Listen, I don't… I can't really share too much."

Her friend nods enthusiastically, "No, that's totally fine!"

They sit there for several seconds, Marinette chewing mournfully on the remains of her sandwich, and her friend mulling over the new information.

"Okay," the girl says slowly, "You can't give names, but…what's he like?"

Marinette sniffs, "A complete pain."

Alya arches a brow.

"He's…not so bad," she amends, "Just…he won't leave me alone."

"That's a good sign," her friend laughs.

"No, I mean… I like Adrien."

Alya grimaces, resting her chin on her hands.

"And that's a problem?"

"Isn't it?"

They both stare at the sandwich as though it's said boy, and she imagines it guiltily crawling across the table.

"There's nothing wrong with liking two people," Alya says finally, "You're not technically committed to anyone, so there's nothing to be ashamed of."

Marinette lowers her sandwich, brows drawing together.

"But doesn't that make me fickle? Like a feeling cheater?"

Alya shakes her head, a huge smile splitting across her face.

"A feeling cheater? There's no such thing, girl."

Marinette's eyes settle on a fleck of color on the wall, and she rests her cheek on the table, letting the cool surface solidify her thoughts.

"I just…I don't want to devalue my feelings. I don't want to do anything that might make what I feel for him seem any less important than it is," she says quietly, "Because it _is_ important."

Alya sighs deeply.

"Girl, if it's really important now, it'll be important later. Caring for someone else isn't going to change that. Emotions are temporary, and so is infatuation. But if you _really_ love Adrien, that isn't going to just disappear."

Marinette chews at her lip.

"Think it over, but don't beat yourself up about it," Alya says, reaching for a sandwich.

Cool, afternoon light plays over the kitchen, filtering in through the window. Marinette's gaze follows the line of the curtains, out to the snowy streets beyond.

"Let the cards fall where they may."


	10. Chapter 10

Early evening falls over the skyline of Paris, warm light stretching out into the distance.

Scheduling patrols had become a fairly strict affair. Modeling has grown excessively more challenging to work around, appointments and school included. If Adrien's father didn't hold his son's schedule in an iron grip, his secretary did.

So, the two heroes had agreed at the end of a previous akuma encounter that they would meet and discuss their schedules.

It turned into something casual and familiar, though Chat wasn't the first to dispute an opportunity for leisure time with Ladybug outside of battle.  
He found her waiting, though she couldn't have been there long, if the box of fresh pastries in her hands was any indicator.

Her head lifts when he drops onto the railing, a breeze catching the ribbons in her hair. The streak of color whips through her dark tresses, a distraction that draws his eyes from the soft smile curving her lips.

"The Eiffel Tower? How cliché of you, Chat," she admonishes.

_"It was the closest landmark to my school,"_ he nearly says.

But he doesn't say that.

The truth is too easy, too accessible. It's moments like these, where the comfort and ease of their partnership roots into both of his lives, and he forgets himself. He forgets why he's supposed to uphold a façade, and he loses one of the many faces he's grown accustomed to wearing.

How simple it would be, to allow himself that indulgence.

Ladybug reaches up then, the box in her outstretched hand falling open. It looks as though it were hastily thrown together, a delicious arrangement of variety that he couldn't possibly turn his nose to.

"Come on, then," she says, "Sit down and help me eat this."

_____________________________________ 

"You can't hit on someone with a donut, Chat."

Ladybug shakes her head at him, her brows drawn together in amusement. Her leg is thrown over the railing they're perched on, honeyed light haloing her dark hair. The soft illumination warms his face and the narrow space between them.

Chat glances at her slight grimace, the way she pinches her croissant, tearing off one piece and then another. His eyes follow each one as they disappear between her parted lips.

"And why not?"

She waves her pastry at him, "It's a whole new low, and I can't believe you'd even attempt it."

"Donut underestimate me."

Ladybug eyes her bread, and then his impish smile, as though considering if smacking him with it is worth the loss. She must decide against it, because she tears off another piece, sticking it in her mouth.

"If I'm trying to eat, that's not an open invitation to make suggestive remarks."

Her tone is dismissive, but her body language speaks volumes. The relaxed fall of her shoulders, the gentle slope of her throat – calm, vulnerable. Comfortable.

"What would you consider an open invitation?"

Their banter is oddly easy, familiar even. There's an unhurried hush in the atmosphere, the lazy heat that comes from spending a long afternoon in the sun – the stillness in the morning, when the cool light bleeds through the blinds, and one's eyes have just opened.  
He must have sat here dozens of times, listening to her talk about her days, describing in great detail her favorite parts of Paris and where she'd like to go in her solitude. He could watch her lips form the words, watch her hands flutter and illustrate places and things he'd never glimpsed through her eyes, far after the light drained from the sky. And he had – over and over and over again. He never tired of it.

But she's different tonight, and he can't quite pinpoint it. She doesn't talk about the time away from her alter ego, and her smile is unusual. It flits in a place between anxiety and genuine content, hinting at a train of thoughts that he cannot hope to catch.

As though sensing the underlying uncertainty between them, worming its way into the fat content that had previously settled in their companionable exchange, Ladybug plucks the donut out of his hand, shoving it into his open smile.  
He draws back immediately, sputtering and dragging an arm over his mouth as she laughs.

"An open mouth is an open invitation."

His gaze settles on her in a playful glower. The hint of a flush disappears beneath her mask, amusement coloring her cheeks as she continues to giggle at his expense.

"Well, the next time your mouth is open, I'll be sure to return the favor."

The smile is snuffed out, falling hesitantly from her eyes as the recognition sets in. Another pause – another moment of expectation, where she would usually glare at him or smack his arm half-heartedly. Something disapproving, something discouraging…

Why did he _say_ that?

The uncertainty is there again to swell in the space between them, consuming the warmth and staving off any trace of the content from before. She lingers too long, her face warming, eyes flitting momentarily to… his mouth? No, he imagines it.

But he doesn't imagine the way she glances away, or the misstep before she retorts, her gaze carefully averted as she chastises him. And he doesn't miss the fleeting hesitation as she tosses her croissant to the pigeons.

"We should discuss our schedules."

Part of him wants to agree. He wants to lapse into that safe, quiet place they've settled into. The wall she carefully established between them, where there are only masks and vague imaginings of the lives behind the facades. But it's not that part of him that speaks out, and he regrets the words even before they leave his mouth.

"Do you remember the last time we saw each other?"

It's a subject they haven't ventured, haven't even acknowledged, since it happened. And he knows the moment he says it, from the tension in her posture and the catch of her breath that she does, in fact, remember.

There's a moment of indecision in her features, and it's so abrupt and brief that Chat almost doubts it. But then it's gone, and she's withdrawing.

She focuses on something distant, something far below them, and he can see her mind turning – carefully mulling over her response, piecing together her thoughts before she voices them. It's something he distinctly lacks.

Ladybug shifts, "I remember."

He wonders how the memory comes to her, as she says it. Is it the imagery – the smoke and heat, the proximity…?

From the way she says the word, with forced indifference, pushing it past her lips as though ridding the thought before she can linger on it, he imagines he can't be far from the mark. He has been by her side for too long, picking up hidden intention in brief glances and unspoken words; he can read nearly every unturned page in her eyes.

"Shouldn't we talk about it?"

Ladybug sighs softly, and he can see the tension returning to her shoulders, the vulnerability slipping back under the mask.

"Talk about what, Chat?"

He considers her for a moment – the sweep of her lashes as she averts her eyes, the hard set of her jaw. He can nearly sense the wall reforming.

"I thought miscommunication was partially responsible for what happened that night," he says quietly.

She glances at him, and there's a flash of something in her expression as her brows draw together. Something reserved and uncertain, lingering between them as she shifts against the railing.

"No," she breathes, "You weren't yourself that night. There was something wrong, even from the beginning of the patrol, and I noticed that. But…"

She shakes her head, dragging in a steadying breath. And that's when he recognizes it. In the set of her mouth, pressed in a firm line as she fiddles with a corner of the bakery box; in the uneasy catch in her voice.

"I shouldn't have ignored your behavior. We're partners – we work _together_. I should have paid attention."

_She feels responsible,_ he realizes.

There's a sinking feeling in his gut, and it only deepens as she leans forward, folding her arms over the aging metal beams.

"I've grown so accustomed to dismissing all of your actions and words for face value, and I suppose…it was an irresponsible thing to do. It could have meant life or death, in this case, for you. And…it was…"

He remembers that night, looking up at her. At the tears welling in her eyes, soot and salt mingling disdainfully as she berated him. The heat on their skin, plumes of smoke rising into the dark sky.

"It was my fault," Ladybug chokes.

She's torn off a piece of the box's label, rolling it between her fingers, worrying it until it loses form. His eyes are drawn to it, until she says those last words.

"It was my fault for ignoring you then, and for every moment I've taken you for granted before it. For every time I've expected you to throw yourself into another battle, to take another risk that isn't mine to anticipate. For every moment we've spent together, where I–"

She's speaking quickly now, as though the words are desperately escaping, and she hasn't the willpower to restrain them.

Chat's stomach twists painfully. He sweeps the box away, closing the space between them until there is no room left for her hesitance. And when he tugs her away from the railing, it's almost forgotten.

Her head falls onto his shoulder. It's comfortable there, and the rightness of its fit roots into him.

"I'm sorry, Chat," she whispers.

"Don't be sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have hidden it from you."

She doesn't answer, and he knows that it must bother her – to have more secrecy in their already shadowed partnership.

"Why did you feel like you had to hide it?"

The light is fading, dropping low past the buildings. The warm glow recedes from their perch on the Tower, drawing away from their figures until they're left to the cool evening. Somehow, the heat lingers where she rests against him, and he doesn't mind the evening closing in.

"I didn't want to worry you."

Chat can nearly feel her eyes rolling.

"That's rather reckless of you."

"Reckless is my middle name."

She scoffs, but with it, he can feel a small burst of tension. A loss in her anxiety – and while it's slight, it's enough.

They sit there, very still, watching the clouds pass overhead as the sky darkens. The snow has nearly melted.

"Tell me," she says quietly, "If there's something bothering you."

And when he hesitates, she takes his hand – halting at first, and then with a firm squeeze.

"Please?"

Her fingers are warm, ghosting across his palm with a gentle pressure. It reminds him of several nights earlier – a different evening, with a different girl.

And suddenly, there's a new form of discomfort clutching his chest.

"Of course, My Lady."

_____________________________________ 

"Please, man. I'm _begging_ you."

The classroom is stifling, for a late-winter afternoon.

Adrien can distinctly recite each agonizing detail of the board, and the niches in the wallpaper surrounding it, but he can't remember precisely when he'd entered into this conversation with Nino.

It must have been fairly recently – at least, within the past several minutes – because the boy had already delved into another recollection of his conversation with Alya a few hours previously.

Adrien cares – he honestly does – but his mind has been elsewhere, consumed with thoughts that stretch past the recesses of school and the rest of his busy schedule.

It isn't Nino's fault that he struggles to pay attention, or that he's asked his friend to repeat himself half a dozen times. The fact that the boy hasn't grown exasperated with him, or caught on to his peculiar behavior, speaks volumes of Nino's current predicament.

"I'm sorry," Adrien utters, for the third time within the past ten minutes, "What were you saying?"

His friend sags against their shared desk, the brim of his hat folding against the smooth surface.

"This woman is going to be the end of me," he groans, but it's nearly indistinct and lost against the wood.

Adrien rubs the back of his neck, his eyes moving from Madame Bustier's empty desk to the drawn blinds at the windows. Lunch is nearly over.

He is glad to have time away from home for one afternoon – having already planned to leave early from practice for a scheduled shoot, his father advised to remain there until Nathalie picked him up. It was a refreshing change, and one he wasn't regretful of.

"Okay," the blonde says slowly, "Let's try this again…"

He reaches over, lifting his friend's hat enough to glimpse the dejected expression on the boy's face.

"What's going on?"

Nino grumbles, and it sounds faintly similar to 'Alya'.

It isn't until Adrien jabs him in the side, the butt end of his pencil in his friend's ribs, that Nino sits up with a start.

"Dude, _Alya_!" he says, as though it were obvious.

"What about her?"

Nino's chin sinks into his palm, and he glances at the door, as though said girl could walk in at any moment.

"I asked her out."

Adrien stares at him openly, for a moment too long as his friend's complexion deepens in hue. They sit there, Nino's eyes flitting here and there, finding distraction in the other students surrounding them.

"And?" Adrien prompts.

Nino pauses, looking rather embarrassed.

"Well, she said she'd like to go to your fashion show."

He must have missed something. Adrien looks on for a moment, his brows drawing together.

"And you need…tickets?"

"No. I mean, yes? Well…"

Nino sighs heavily, lifting his hat to drag a hand through his short hair.

"She said she wanted Marinette to come along, and since Marinette likes fashion–"

Adrien's interest peaks, his attention sharpening as the name is introduced into their conversation. His thoughts congeal for a moment, sliding into focus as Nino glances at him sheepishly.

"Marinette?" he echoes.

Nino nods, "Yeah. I mean, it's not technically a date. But, I thought, if you're there then maybe…"

Adrien's pulse heightens.

"Maybe…?" he prods.

His friend's expression turns pleading.

"Maybe you could wingman me? Show Marinette around after the show and give me some alone time with Alya?"

He's seen this expression before – and admittedly, it's difficult to say no.

The show is still several weeks away, he reminds himself. It's not as though he can't get ahold of tickets, or secure seating for a few friends if he wanted to. It's the prospect of having _time_ to help Nino. Once a show is finished, the staff or Nathalie usually whisks him away and brushes him off for a series of interviews.

But there's that look – the one where Nino's brows lift impossibly high into his hairline, and he gets that pleading, admiring glint in his eyes that wedges into Adrien's subconscious (as though just the mention of Marinette isn't enough to intrigue him).

The boy lifts his hand in an offering, and Adrien glances from it to his face.

"Are you the man for the job?" Nino teases.

His mind flits back to his conversation with Ladybug, to her request. And this time, he knows that not only can he not say no, but he won't. Not this time.

Because if there's anything he's become well-acquainted with, it's distracting Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

"I am."


	11. Chapter 11

It's not a day, or even two days, that Marinette waits. It's nearly a week.

Truthfully, to say that she waits would be an insult of character, because she's more than grudging over her newfound interest in her window.  
It's with a sly glance at the sill that she watches, and a turned ear that she listens. It's with a heavy sigh and feigned disinterest that she glances toward the loft.

Five days since that night in Paris, roaming the darkened streets, perusing a locked building and hiding in shrubbery. Five days since she broke the promises she'd made to herself, and crossed another line with Chat Noir. And five days since he'd told her he'd be back.

She sits on the chaise in her bedroom, long after she's supposed to be asleep, staring at the half-finished scarf in her lap. Her fingertips follow the familiar loops and knots, the crocheting needle absently dipping through the fabric. In and out, in and out.

_"…I'll come back later. We'll talk more about it this upcoming week; you're too tired to make any plans right now."_

_Empty words,_ she tells herself.

But he was right; she was tired. She was tired of his whims and his newfound interest in her. She was painfully tired of _thinking_ about it. About what he meant when he said things, and why _in the bloody hell_ he kept coming back.

_A cat will take affection where he can find it,_ she reasons.

She leaves the window unlocked; she doesn't close the latch, and she doesn't pull the curtains.

_So he doesn't bang on the glass and wake me up like before,_ Marinette clarifies to herself.

That's assuming he returns at all, and assuming is the last thing she wants to do. She doesn't want to wait, to watch, to hope…

She should focus on school. On Alya, on the upcoming class project, on the designs that are left unfinished and neglected in her notebooks.

_On Adrien._

She shouldn't be here, like this, staring at a frosted windowpane and thinking of things that are best left untouched.

The room is too quiet – the sort of stillness cast by shallow breaths and cold nights. It's heavy, and it closes over Marinette like a vice.

She grows exasperated with the scarf, throwing it down abruptly. The lack of noise or impact leaves her frustrated, and she twists around, tossing the crocheting needle at the window for a more satisfying result.  
It smacks the pane, clattering to the floor noisily. On the other side of the glass a shadow ducks, and her stomach swoops at the movement, tightening painfully in expectation.

Or, it could be rasp of gloved knuckles at the window.

The same window she's battled an alternating disposition toward for the past several days. The same shadow she's hoped and dreaded to see.  
But her feet follow the same path across the floor. Her hands still find the latch, and she still swings it open.

And he's waiting there, looking exactly as she expected him to. Mussed hair and flushed face – eyes bright as hot, fast breaths steam from his lips.

Chat smiles at her, and it's just as heartbreakingly lopsided as it was so many days ago. It's nearly enough to forget her irritation.

Nearly.

"You're late," she says shortly.

Chat's bright, cheeky temperament dampens momentarily. It's a slight shift in his demeanor – in the flick of his gaze from her pressed lips to the darkened room behind her.

"Were you waiting?"

Marinette bristles, indignant.

"Of course not."

He considers her quietly as she folds her arms across her chest.

There's a closed hesitation that passes over his expression, and she can see her uncertainty mirrored there. As though this visit has been a halting decision for him – and considering how long it's taken him, perhaps it has.

He shivers visibly, and it draws her attention away from her own distraction. The snow has mostly melted, but Paris' winter nights are still bitter and unforgiving. Beautiful, yes – but undeniably cold.

A part of her wants to leave him out here, mewling and trembling on her windowsill like the stray he is. Truth be told, she ought to. He's brought nothing but trouble and confusion to her life during the past month.

But there's another side of her that harbors weak judgement and compassion, and it pities him.

She sighs, "Come inside, then."

Marinette steps aside, and his face melts into a grateful smile.

Her eyes follow him. They trace the familiar cut of his suit as he drops to her floor – the lithe muscles in his slender frame working as he shakes off the cold.

She plucks the crocheting needle off the floor and shuts the window, busying herself. When she crosses back to the chaise, her eyes find the loft where Tikki is nestled among her blankets. If the kwami wakes, she'll hopefully take notice of the cat immediately and stay out of sight.

"Still a fan, I see."

Said boy straightens, gesturing to a wall that's still spattered with posters and cut-outs. Marinette scoops up the yarn from the floor, carefully focusing on the material between her hands in an effort of nonchalance.

"And you're still nosy," she says pointedly.

She can feel his eyes on her. He must find interest in what she's doing, because within seconds he's filling the space beside her, crossing his legs and hovering just by her shoulder.

"What's this?"

Marinette turns tensely, obscuring it from his view. It's abrupt and curt, and Chat's gaze moves from her hands to her face, his brows winging up with curiosity.

"None of your business," she blurts.

She realizes a second too late that being rash will only make him more inquisitive – and she's not wrong.

His eyes gleam, "Is it a secret?"

The girl blanches, inwardly fumbling for a scapegoat. Her hesitation fuels his speculations, and his lips curve into a devilish grin.

"Is it a surprise for someone? A gift?"

Marinette flushes darkly, though for what reason is uncertain. It had been intended for him to begin with – for the both of them, really. She'd been planning on making a matching scarf for her Ladybug persona, for the nights when the patrols were exceptionally cold and grueling.

"Is it for me?" he asks, a new sense of revelation lighting his expression.

It could be his growing excitement, or the pressing invasion on her personal space, that vexes her. But he's too close, and his suggestion that she would painstakingly hide a gift for him – that he would spring to the conclusion that she would knit something _specifically_ with him in mind – grates on her nerves more than it should. It embarrasses and frustrates her.

Because he's not wrong.

"No!" she says a little too loudly.

There's a flash of disappointment in his eyes. It twists in her stomach, unfamiliar and regretful.

He eases away, just an inch or two, but it's enough. She pulls in a breath.

"Who is it for, then?"

She inspects his expression, but she can't discern anything from it. It's disconcerting.

"Someone," she mumbles lamely.

He's looking at her intently, and it's only the span of seconds, but she feels something heavy and tangible linger there. She's struck with the curiosity of what might be on his mind during those thick seconds, when he snatches up a thought and voices it.

"Is it for your prince?"

The reality of his question doesn't occur to her at first. She's fleetingly grateful for the opportunity to escape the topic, clasping onto the nearest out – which, in this moment, is whomever Chat just mentioned.

"Yes!"

She says it firmly, and the reckless confirmation stirs something behind the eyeholes of his mask.

"Yes?" he echoes.

Marinette's mouth grows dry. She stares at him openly, desperately attempting to school her features into (what she hopes is) nonchalance.

"It gets cold outside," she blunders, "And I thought he might, ah- appreciate…the gesture?"

She swallows hard, glancing down at the scarf in her lap. As though the wretched thing might provide answers – or a substantial shelter for her pride, seeing as things are going downhill rather quickly.

"I'm sure he would."

Marinette lifts her head, catching the hint of a smile as he looks away. Guarding his expression – hiding a teasing grin, no doubt. Her hackles rise visibly.

"What?"

Chat shakes his head, and it wedges under her skin. It shouldn't bother her this much – his reactions, his opinions on what she does. For now, it's enough to justify it to herself, that this was originally intended for him.

She elbows him sharply, "What?"

Chat barks out a laugh, ducking out of reach as she swipes at him a second time. It flusters her, and that alone seems to amuse him more than whatever he'd been thinking a moment before.

"Nothing!"

He lifts his hands to ward off her accusing stare, grinning widely.

"Really," he insists, "It's just…"

_Silly? Juvenile?_

"Considerate."

A joke, a jab – teasing. Sincerity is unaccounted for, and she's not sure how to swallow it. It strips her of retaliation for a moment, and she blanches.

He lowers his hands, gaze flicking from her astonished expression to the fabric in her lap. The smile is different somehow – softer. Distracting.

"Can I touch it?"

She manages a slow nod, despite her previous trepidation. It's disarming, how easily Chat can sway her temperament. From one second to another, she falls into step behind him. It's a striking contrast to their partnership together beneath the masks and facades – where Ladybug is always a toe ahead.

"Be careful with it," she says quietly.

He's mindful of the thread that's unraveled at the unfinished edge, fingering it with gentle admiration. Chat loops it awkwardly around his neck, and it doesn't fall quite right over his bell. He beams nonetheless, seemingly satisfied with his attempt.  
Chat's eyes pinch with delight, a warm severity in the vulnerable grin on his face. Marinette's chest squeezes at his expression, and it temporarily seizes her.

She reaches out, already adjusting it at his throat before she's aware of the unconscious movement. Chat grows very still under her hands, and she pauses.

"It'll get caught," she utters, "On your bell."

_Justifications._

"I see," he murmurs.

_Excuses._

She tugs at the material gently, seamstress' fingers moving of their own volition. It fluffs around his neck as she'd visualized before. Dark wool grazing the line of his jaw, settling on the slope of his shoulders naturally.

Perfectly.

It should be sinful, that he can wear a scarf so fashionably over a sleek, collared suit.

She's keenly aware of the soft, fuzzy yarn under her fingers – a thin layer between her palms and his skin. The familiar scent of his cologne, undoubtedly beginning to cling to the fabric roped at his throat. Her eyes are drawn to the bob of his Adam's apple, and Marinette snatches back her hands fluidly, glancing down.

"It's nice," he says, his voice hushed.

She swallows, "It looks like it."

When he doesn't respond, she clears her throat, fumbling to clarify.

"I mean, it helps to see how it fits before I give it to him."

He hums, and the sound travels through the quiet space between them. There's a shift of weight on the chaise, and Marinette involuntarily tenses, holding her breath.

"Do you have a mirror?" he asks.

_He's too close._

The breath aches in her chest, straining, tipping on the rationalization forming at the back of her mind. Proximity that should hold no weight, no meaning. But it stretches in her stomach, fattening her nerves.

"Over there," she manages, gesturing.

She watches him briefly – standing up with the yarn in hand, moving across the room. A shadow ghosting past pink furniture and distinctly feminine décor. Out of place, but familiar.

"I believe I've complimented your skill before," he says, "But this is well-made."

"Fashion praise from a man in a cat suit," she laughs shortly.

He chuckles, but the sound is misplaced, distracted. It draws her eyes to the line of his shoulders, where his head hangs forward. Looking down, instead of at his reflection.

"Is there something wrong?"

He startles, turning, and she can see his hands bunched at his throat. Stroking the material absently, thoughtfully.

"No," he shakes his head, "No, I just…"

Marinette folds her legs, gaze flitting from his pensive expression to the yarn in his hand.

"Scarves aren't exactly my area of expertise; I've only seriously made one once before," she glances at her hands, embarrassed, "It didn't have much feedback, so I'm relying on references."

He stares at her hard, and it prickles along her neck.

"Who was it for?" he asks quietly, casually.

Hesitation settles low in her gut, though she's uncertain of the source of it. It might be the dark, thick space between them – the glint of his feline gaze slanting at her from across the room. It's pressing and heavy with an emotion she can't pinpoint.

"The same person," she whispers.

The words slip lightly from her lips, but they're leaden for Chat. His expression shifts, something passing over his features that snuffs her curiosity.

It's quiet and daunting, and it arrests her.

The way he looks down, breath hitching, hands growing still. His reaction cuts bewilderment over Marinette's thoughts.

"Is that odd?" she ventures.

Chat's head snaps up, disoriented.

"No," he says quickly, "No, it's not."

His eyes linger on her for a beat longer, and then he ducks his head, turning completely away from the mirror. When he sinks into her desk chair, swiveling to face her, Marinette feels the unease slip fractionally.

An array of emotions glimpse behind his mask as he slips the scarf from his neck, passing it back to her.

"He'll like it," he says softly.

She takes it, palm to gloved fingertips, claws grazing cool skin.

"I hope so," she breathes.

There's a gentle affirmation in his eyes that tugs at her. Marinette swallows, tucking the handful of yarn back into her sewing bag, shoving it under the chaise lounge. Out of sight, along with her thoughts.

"Speaking of princes," Chat says, "That's why I'm here."

She glances at him, brows rising.

"I told you that night, before I left. Unless you don't remember?"

He smiles teasingly, and Marinette casts him a deadpanned look.

"You brought me home half-asleep, and you expect me to remember everything that was said?"

But she does remember – very well.

"Let the cards fall where they may…" he prompts.

She nods slowly, feigning careful consideration.

"Quid pro quo."

It was meant as a confirmation, but the words invoke an entirely different recollection. She holds his gaze for a brief moment before glancing away.

"So, what are you suggesting?" she asks.

Chat leans forward, arms folding over the back of her chair, chin resting on them.

"Why don't you approach him?"

The question is abrupt, and Marinette starts, eyes darting to his face.

"Who?"

Vibrant, green eyes flick to the poster just behind her head.

"The little prince."

She bristles momentarily, "What makes you think I don't talk to him?"

He watches her, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, have you?"

"No," she admits irritably.

Chat orchestrates her emotions like a conductor, drawing her from one disposition to another. She's unaware of it until the thoughts are rolling into place, her reactions sliding seamlessly behind his quips. It's incredibly frustrating.

"Why not?" he presses.

She purses her lips.

"Because it's difficult to talk to people that you inwardly place above the rest of the world."

An exposed astonishment passes over his features.

"You think so highly of him?"

Heat crawls up her skin, and she averts her attention to her pajama bottoms. She can feel Chat watching her face, waiting with pinched interest for her response.

"He's important to me."

Marinette hears his intake of breath, "Why?"

An image surfaces to the forefront of her mind. The slap of feet on wet concrete, an outstretched umbrella, and the severity of pressing, green eyes. Tikki's tinkling laugh, distant and hushed beneath her uneven pulse.

_Adrien._

Adrien with his endearing uncertainty and heart-wrenching smile. Adrien with his embarrassment over the gum misunderstanding. Adrien twisting her thoughts in looping knots until she can't function properly.

And when she opens her mouth, the words have already tumbled past her lips before she's mulled over them. They've escaped her, and she hasn't realized them until they're already filling the space in her mouth.

"From the first moment I met Adrien, I think I had already taken him for face value. There's that part in all of us that harbors an idealistic image of someone. The way we _want_ them to be, rather than how they really are. He was the snobby friend of my enemy, the boy that followed obediently and bowed his head to conflict. The model, the son of a fashion emperor, that yearned for the attention of others. And I hated that. It took time for me to see him as anything else. For me to see his friendship with Chloe as loyalty and kindness, instead of a blind dedication."

"I think that's how we imprint people into our lives. It's not sudden, and it's different from infatuation. It's looking past the scripted smile, and seeing the loneliness. It's being willing to accept them as an imperfect individual, even when they may not accept themselves. It's discovering each new detail about them like small treasures, and storing it away in a place that may never find use."

Marinette pauses, considering.

"Loving someone, and knowing they may never return your feelings, is like watering a dying plant. You don't know if anything is going to come of it, but it doesn't matter. Because it's not for you, it's for them. It's for the potential that it may bring them some happiness, that their world may expand and make room for you, if only briefly."

There's shallow breaths between them, and she shifts uncomfortably under Chat's gaze.

She doesn't look at him at first. The stillness is different somehow, charged with a bated expectancy that she doesn't understand. But when she does meet his eyes, it's like the first night he visited.

It's dilated pupils and palpable tension. It's the flush in his cheeks, the part of his lips as he stares openly at her. And it's maddening.

"You should say that to him," he says lowly.

He lifts his head from his arms, and though the movement is scarce, she feels as though the proximity between them has closed exceptionally.

"How?" she laughs.

The sound is breathy and anxious, and she regrets it the moment it leaves her.

"I can help you," he says slowly, "I know how he might think."

"First you're a fashion expert, and now you can read minds. Is there no end to your super powers?"

He grins, and the self-satisfaction in his expression is devastating.

"I'm told I'm extraordinarily charming, but that's not so much a skill as it is a natural asset."

"I've never heard that term used to describe ego," she says.

Chat's brows lift, "Your immunity wounds me, Princess."

She smothers her amusement.

"Perhaps it's not that I'm immune, but that you've been misinformed."

He lifts a hand to his heart, feigning insult. But there's mirth in his eyes, and the tension between them has grown thin.

"Remind me to never cross you," he says.

"Never cross me, Chat."

Her tone betrays the smile forming on her lips, and his gaze lingers there. His expression sobers, turning thoughtful.

"You should talk to him" he repeats.

There's something firm and intentional in his voice, and it cuts into her, wrenching her attention from their playful banter.

"Why?" she whispers, "How does this benefit you?"

His eyes snap to hers, and she catches the hesitation there. She grasps onto it, a suspicious curiosity biting into her thoughts.

"Quid pro quo," he says, and the words alone fall heavier between them than they might have before.

"If I help you, then you help me. You give me a woman's advice, and I'll help you with your prince."

Marinette furrows her brow, "For Ladybug?"

She doesn't expect the surprise, unguarded and abrupt, that flashes over his face. It perplexes her far more than it should.

There are few things she's been sure of in her life, but one of them indisputably has been Chat Noir's proclamations of love for Ladybug. His consistent flirting, his public displays of affection for her under the weight of the world's eyes – though she's written it as a tiring attribute to her partner's personality, there's never been a moment where he hasn't made it painfully obvious to everyone within earshot that he harbors feelings for her.

And now, distributing an offer for feminine advice, he blanches when she suggests his Lady.

She must look puzzled, because he recovers quickly, nodding with a sheepish grin.

"Right! Right."

Marinette chews her lip as he extends a hand, her heart leaping to her throat at his soft inquiry. Just one word, but it summons rich imagery.

"Accomplices?"

A night, very similar to this one, where they were separated by no more than a few layers of fabric. Secrets shrouded in foliage, unmasked between them with one word.  
She stares at his hand for a moment, at the sleek, gloved digits. And she knows how it feels, over her skin and in her hair.

Marinette has always viewed Ladybug as a separate entity – a part of herself that she never fully accepted. Ladybug is the symbol of a legacy, and she only wears the mask.  
But here, unveiled and exposed with Chat Noir, she knows that there's a boy somewhere beneath his Miraculous.

And to shake his hand is to agree to a breach in their friendship.

As Ladybug. As Marinette.

_I'm only agreeing to help him **try** ,_ she tells herself.

Alya's words are in her head, salving her inhibitions.

_"A feeling cheater? There's no such thing."_

_"Let the cards fall where they may."_

There's a small voice at the back of her head, and it whispers incessantly.

_Justifications. Excuses._

When her hand slips into his, she can feel it quiet to a low hum at the back of her head, before dissipating altogether.

"Accomplices."


	12. Chapter 12

Adrien is sleep-deprived.

Like most of his visits with Marinette – a curious detail, that there have been enough now to list them as a majority – he stayed out far too late.

They spoke at length, talking into the dark, early hours of the morning. Marinette was visibly tired, rubbing her heavy eyes as she ushered him toward her window. And though his body was equally weary, and he had a long day ahead of him, Adrien had found himself reluctant to leave her cozy space.

"You can't keep coming here like this," she had said, "Sooner or later, someone will see you."

Chat hummed thoughtfully, "Then we'll have to conduct our meetings in a more secure location."

"These visits are already shady enough without you suggesting we conduct some sort of business arrangement."

Her tone was admonishing, but the slant of her mouth spoke barely contained amusement.

He paused at the sill, snatching up her hand and giving it a chaste kiss before she could protest it. And then he was slipping out onto the rooftops, selectively oblivious to the flustered, hushed complaints that followed him from her open window. The smile it elicited clung to him throughout his trek – over the streets of Paris and into the keen hours of the morning when he finally dozed off.

Adrien can still feel it on his lips as he stretches, blinking past the light bleeding across his bedroom floor. He can hear Plagg's soft, rumbling breaths on the other side of his head, where the kwami undoubtedly has nestled into his blonde hair. It's a familiar weight, and one he's not unaccustomed to.

He squints blearily at his bedside table, face partially obscured by blankets and pillows. It's too early to be awake, but he knows Nathalie will be here soon to usher him toward the car. He doesn't want to get up, and his body protests knowingly at the thought. But if she finds him still in bed, it could mean a loss of his privilege to attend school, and he'd be hard-pressed to lose that.

_Especially now._

His limbs feel leaden, and Adrien groans lowly as he rolls to his feet.

Paper crinkles under his toes, and he starts, verdant eyes blinking groggily toward the small shape on the floor. Scribbled writing in curved, curly loops stare back at him from the floor boards. He stoops to pick it up, stifling a yawn as he peers at the lettering.

He'd nearly forgotten.

Marinette had snatched something off her desk and scribbled on it quickly, pressing it into his palm before urging him toward her window. He'd been so caught in her chastising, in her rattled expression when he kissed her hand, that he'd nearly forgotten entirely about it.

_ 555-0368 _

_(Don't make me regret this!)_

_– M_

Adrien stares at the numbers for a solid beat, his smile growing impossibly wider. He rushes to his bag on unsteady legs, stuffing the note into an outside pocket before fishing around for his cell phone.

He opens a new message immediately.

_**[ princess,** _

_**take a deep breath and try talking to him today. I'm pawsitive he'll like it! :3** _

_**– C.N. ]** _

Adrien adds the new number to his contacts, hesitating as he decides what to label her as. He draws a hand through his tousled hair, frowning uncertainly at the screen. After some flustered deliberation, he types her name.

_Simple. Friendly._

His eyes are drawn to the little star next to her contact, and his finger hovers over it, heart rising in his throat.

Would that be weird?

_No_ , he reasons, _I have Nino on my favorites list – completely platonic._

He wavers.

_**Ding.** _

Adrien starts, fumbling as he nearly drops his phone. He scrambles to select the message notification.

_**\- The car is waiting. -** _

Nathalie.

He sighs heavily, typing back a quick response before tossing the phone onto his bed.

Plagg is curled up, sleeping soundly on the pillows. It'd take an especially ripe piece of camembert to wake him up at this point, and Adrien doesn't have the time or patience this morning.

He scoops up the kwami gently, as he's done countless times before, and tucks him into his bag. The small creature nestles into the soft, blue fabric of his scarf, oblivious to the text books and school essentials.

Adrien's gaze lingers there.

His heart squeezes painfully, thoughts racing back to the revelation from the night before.

To Marinette's inadvertent confession to making it. To the realization that his father had never gifted it to him.

To the knowledge that this piece of hope for the man's humanity, for his love and affection, was as fragile and misguided as each one before had been. He'd worn it with naivety, flaunting a gesture of love that had never occurred, fantasizing over a parental figure that didn't exist. It had been another lie, another illusion.

Another shred of evidence that Gabriel Agreste was an image and a name, and not the father that Adrien desperately wanted to paint him as.

He fingers the material, brows knitting. Plagg's short, warm breaths fan across his knuckles, and Adrien rubs the kwami's ear fondly. He straightens, tugging the zipper closed.

No more naivety.

No more empty expectations.

He doesn't hesitate this time when he taps the star next to Marinette's name. And there's a tender, expanding sense of satisfaction that settles in his stomach as her name pops up on the favorites list.

Above Nathalie.

Above his father.

__________________________________________

Admittedly, Adrien has attended school while exhausted on many occasions. Leading an alternate life as Chat Noir has stretched into long, sleepless nights before. The patrols were tireless, the akumas were exceptionally more difficult, or he simply couldn't bring himself to go back home. He'd indulged in fatigue more than once.

But this is the first time that he doesn't care.

Nino lifts his head when his friend enters the classroom, his arms folded behind his hat and feet propped up on the desk. He waves at Adrien, and the model returns it, smiling widely in greeting before his eyes drift up.

Alya is on her phone, scrolling absently before class starts. No doubt she's checking the Ladyblog, where she recently posted a candid shot of the scarlet hero soaring over Paris' night skyline – Adrien would know, since he has the photo saved as his desktop screen.

To her right, Marinette slumps wearily over their shared desk.

The boy approaches with exaggerated nonchalance, making an effort of greeting Nino, then Alya, before sinking down in front of her.

She doesn't rouse at first, and Adrien waits with bated breath for the stuttered hello, that awkward little wave of hers. But it doesn't come, and as the seconds move forward, his chest tightens.

_Did she read the message?_

With each passing minute, he grows increasingly uncertain.

"Nino Lahiffe, get your feet off that desk."

Madame Bustier throws the boy a pointed look as she enters the classroom, crossing to the board. The flutter of papers and the hush of voices indicate the start of the school day, and Adrien presses his lips into a thin line, his heart giving a squeeze of disappointment.

She didn't see it, or she chose to ignore it.

His hand is at his bag, reaching for a notebook, when he hears her voice.

"Adrien?" she whispers.

His head whips up, gaze darting to her face.

"Yes?"

She pauses when their eyes meet, and Adrien can feel the seconds tangibly. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles, a rosy imprint on her face from where she'd been laying on her notebook. Marinette's mouth parts, and he can see the hesitation, the warring indecision in her features as she stares back at him.

_Say it._

He offers her a slow, encouraging smile. It must jar her momentarily, because he can see the indecision cave, giving way to flustered embarrassment.

"How are me? I mean, you! How are…you?"

The words tumble from her all at once, and she stumbles over them, flushing darkly.

"Tired," he admits, "How are you?"

She sucks in a breath, and his eyes are drawn to her lips – her chest rising, inhaling deeply. His mind flashes back to the text he'd sent.

_**Take a deep breath.** _

"I'm okay," she says evenly.

He continues to stare, forgetting himself. Forgetting his casual disposition, the classroom that they're sitting in, and their friends sitting beside them. Marinette's face deepens in hue, and it brings him back to the present.

She hurriedly adds, "Thank you for asking."

As though he'd been staring at her because she forgot to thank him. As though he had thought her impolite.

_Ladybug wasn't wrong; you are an idiot._

"No, thank you!" he blurts.

_Real smooth, Agreste._

"Adrien and Marinette," Madame Bustier says loudly.

Their heads snap up.

"I have a class to teach. Would you care to join us?"

Adrien turns around, Nino chuckling softly beside him as heat crawls up his neck.

________________________________________

Class is unbearably slow, and Adrien is drove to distraction. He only manages to catch one, maybe two glimpses of Marinette before lunch, having to use the excuse of rummaging in his bag in both instances. Plagg levels him with a critical, knowing look each time, and Nino watches him closely after that, so he doesn't try again for the rest of the day.

By the time the last bell chimes, his nerves are frayed.

Adrien throws his bag over his shoulder, pausing to glance up as his best friend ducks out of class. Fencing is today, and Nino has learned not to wait up on practice days.

He waits several seconds, feigning interest in something on the board as the rest of the students file out. Chloe blows him a kiss as she hustles out the door, and he offers her a polite smile.  
Alya left earlier than Nino today, elbowing his friend sharply and whispering something about 'date planning'. Adrien had thought it better not to question it.

Madam Bustier has already collected her things, advising him to hurry off to his after-school activities before she steps out of the room.

It's seconds later when he turns around, surprised that Marinette still hasn't left.

She's fallen asleep again, somewhere between Alya slipping out and the bell going off. Dark hair spills across the desk surface, pooling over her notebook like ink. He can see the curve of her cheek, mouth brushing her knuckles as she breathes deeply.

Adrien holds his breath, and he glances at the door, eyes searching for any lingering students.

Lingering here will make him late for fencing; he's never been late before. There's a small voice at the back of his head, the voice that has been carefully clipped and shaped into an obedient son, that urges him to leave her here and rush to practice. Give her a gentle shake, maybe.

_Don't stay_ , it says, _Be rational._

Adrien is always rational.

He can feel it protesting as his bag slides from his shoulder, smacking the top of his desk. It shouts warily at him as he leans over the back of his seat.

His elbows rest on the cool wood, so close he can see the flour in her hair – a faint splash of freckles, spotted across her cheeks and nose. Every detail, indistinguishable before, despite the many months they'd shared together here in this classroom.

Her lids flutter, a strand of hair falling loosely over her lashes. Before he's even thought it through, his fingertips are grazing her brow, brushing her bangs away from her eyes, and his chest clenches involuntarily. He can smell the shampoo she uses, can see the individual, dark lashes fanned over her cheekbones.

The last time they were this close…

_Don't._

He drags a feather-light touch over her cheek, knuckles grazing her chin, and her warm breath stirs against his wrist. Adrien hesitates.

He draws his hand back, heart hammering against his ribs.

What would she do, if she woke to this?

Would she be angry, scared, uncomfortable?

He inwardly curses his impulsiveness and reaches for his bag. He's hardly taken a few steps toward the door when he hears paper shift.

Adrien stiffens, pausing mid-step.

"Where is everyone?" she whispers groggily.

He turns, breath caught in his throat as he drinks in her sleep-mussed appearance. Disheveled hair and half-lidded eyes, a hint of smeared drool on her cheek.

_Adorable._

"They've left," he says quietly.

She stares at him for a few beats, eyes unfocused.

"You're still here," she points out dazedly.

"I am."

Marinette looks down at her scattered books, appearing to collect her surroundings. She lifts a hand hastily and drags her sleeve over her mouth, swiping the dribble off her chin with a mortified flush. She rises to her feet, shoving her things into her bag.  
When Adrien crosses back to her, the little voice in his head huffs reproachfully.

"Are you alright?"

She blinks owlishly, lifting a hand to smother a yawn.

"You seem tired," he clarifies, adjusting his bag.

It's several seconds before she processes his words, and when she does, her face reddens. He finds his attention raptured by it momentarily.  
She's never like this with Chat Noir, and their contrasting interactions bewilder him. How he could have been so oblivious to it before is baffling.

"That's not to say that you look bad," he blunders.

She pauses on the steps, reaching for her things as her eyes lift to his face.

Adrien swallows, "You look very nice! Pretty, actually."

The reaction is instantaneous, and his heart leaps into his throat.

Her response is stammered and incoherent as she grabs for her bag, foot catching on the step as she fumbles for the table. Marinette throws out a hand to steady herself, missing entirely and slipping as she pitches backward on the steps. A high-pitched yelp escapes her as Adrien lunges forward, bag dropping to the floor.

The edge of a step connects with his chest, and the air rushes out of him.

His nose is in her hair, arm pillowing her head. When he pulls the air back into his lungs, it's painful and halting. It smells like baked goods and floral soap.  
Adrien draws back, acutely aware of her tensed, stiff weight in his grasp. She stares up at him, nose to nose, azure eyes round with astonishment.

Close enough to forget that he's wearing civilian clothes, and not spandex.

Close enough to see the dark strands of hair that wisp across her forehead, catching in her lashes.

Close enough for his eyes to drop to her mouth, where he can see a pearled glimpse of teeth catch on her bottom lip.

Close enough that he can feel her pulse against his arm, and it's nearly as erratic as his own heartbeat.

And close enough for him to remember that they shouldn't be this close at all.

He jolts away from her as though he's been shocked, and maybe he has. Marinette lets out a hard, breathless noise, as though finally seizing the opportunity to release it.  
When he reaches down to offer a hesitant hand, she takes it, rising to her feet on shaky legs.

He clears his throat, "Are you okay?"

She withdraws her hand hastily, scooping up her bag. Her face burns a shade darker than before, eyes slanting away in embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry," she says, "I should have been more careful! You just surprised took me– I mean took me surprised by! Ah, no! I mean, you took me by surprise– Not to say it was your fault! Because it wasn't. I–"

"No, please! It's okay."

Her hands twist the strap of her bag, and Adrien desperately searches for something to say.

"A few weeks from now there's this fashion show, and Nino was talking about inviting Alya to it. He mentioned you coming…"

Marinette's head snaps up, her gaze still guarded, but lit with an uncertain interest.

"A show?"

His brows lift, "Yeah, it's one I'm participating in, actually."

She stares at him openly.

"I would have thought she said something to you by now," he grimaces, "I hope I didn't ruin a surprise."

Marinette shifts her weight, fingers tugging at the band thoughtfully. When she pauses, lips pursing, he fumbles for words.

"I know it's coming up in a few weeks, but I was hoping you'd come–"

Her eyes grow round, something akin to fear passing over her features. The noise that escapes her, choked and uncertain, startles him.

He knows that expression, the panic and uncertainty. It strikes him with guilt – the thought that he could have said or done something to make her uncomfortable.

With Chat Noir, she's straightforward and unyielding. It's a dance he's increasingly grown accustomed to – interacting with Marinette in that dark room above the bakery.  
But here, he's Adrien. And this is uncharted territory that he's unfamiliar with.

He doesn't know the lance of anxiety that flashes behind those blue eyes, or the appropriate response to it. To touch her, when she hardly knows him beyond friendly acquaintance, could heighten her discomfort. He was already reckless enough to encroach her space moments before, when she could have woken at any moment and caught him.

Adrien has hardly collected his thoughts when she brushes past him, shoulder grazing his elbow, an incoherent and breathless apology escaping her. He catches sight of the tail of her jacket disappearing around the corner, and then she's gone, and he's left standing in an empty classroom.

______________________________________

Adrien is good at fencing, but today is different. Today he can't focus.

Today his posture is sloppy, and his footwork is incompetent at best. Today his thoughts are aimless and unreserved, crippling his concentration and weighing his actions. His instructor scolds him, letting out a noise of disapproval as Adrien requests a visit to the locker room. He says he's feeling under the weather, and it's partially true.

He scared her away.

The apprehension in her eyes festers sourly in his stomach, and Adrien kicks his locker, dropping his headgear onto the bench.

_Damn it._

He should have listened to the little voice in his head. He should have been a _gentleman_ and kept his distance.

Chat Noir can afford to be thoughtless, but Adrien? Adrien has an image to uphold. He has a part to play, and he should have known better than to stray from it.

He opens his locker, resting his head on the door as he rummages through his bag for a water bottle. The scent of cheese permeates his nose, and Adrien frowns at it as a pair of bright, slit green eyes peer up at him.

"Your phone went off."

The kwami nudges it toward his outstretched hand, and Adrien's gaze drifts toward the screen as it lights up. A message.

He snatches it up.

"When was this sent?"

"How would I know?" Plagg sniffs.

The boy swipes the lock screen, eyes searching as he selects his messages. And there's her name, in bold.

_**{ I tried talking to him today. }** _

One sentence, but it's enough to toss his apprehension out from under him. Adrien glances toward the door, then around the room. Confirming his privacy, he taps out a response.

_**[ how did it go? ]** _

He sets his phone on the bench, retrieving a towel and a water bottle from the locker before sinking down next to it. Plagg settles back into the bag, likely to return to his nap.

_**{ He was nice. Really nice, actually. Ugh, it was a disaster }** _

_**[ how so? ]** _

Adrien drapes the towel over his neck, taking a long drink as he stares at the screen.

_**{ Where do I even start? }** _

He frowns, rubbing at his neck thoughtfully.

_**[ it couldn't have been that bad… ]** _

Could she have been awake, in that moment before she stirred?

The thought of her lying there, too frightened to say anything, makes Adrien's breath short. She may have been too kind, or too worried, to tell him to stop. And he wouldn't have known, because he acted thoughtlessly.

_**{ 'Not that bad' is managing two or three words coherently. No, I made an absolute fool of myself. }** _

_**[ ? ]** _

_**{ I couldn't talk to him without sounding like a blabbering idiot, and then I passed out halfway through class and drooled all over my desk. So attractive! }** _

Adrien smiles softly. She looked unbearably cute, unkempt and ruffled from sleep. Cheek pressed to her hand, notebook lines and bleary eyes. He'd seen it before, in the warm light of her bedroom on that first night he knocked on her window.

Somehow, it's become increasingly more endearing now than it was then.

_**[ did the prince wake sleeping beauty? :D ]** _

If he woke her, this is the way to find out. But Adrien can't help but feel guilty for gaining information like this; it almost feels like cheating.

_**{ No. -_-** _

_**But he did invite me to a fashion show. }** _

_**[ that's good! right? ]** _

_**{ He said something nice to me, and I tripped. I fell and took him down with me. Chat, it was mortifying. }** _

"Adrien?"

He hastily slips the phone under his leg, eyes snapping to the figure in the doorway. Another student, still dressed for their fencing lesson.

"Yes?"

The boy peers at Adrien thoughtfully.

"How are you feeling? Monsieur D'Argencourt asked me to come check on you."

Adrien swallows thickly, lifting a hand to his forehead.

"A little clammy, but I think I'll be okay. My schedule has been hectic, so I might just need a minute to breathe."

The boy frowns, eyes moving from the model's hand to his leg. There's suspicion there, in the slope of his brows. Possibly because he's cut a few corners himself, ditched classes or lessons on occasion, and so he knows how to spot an amateur attempt.

But he doesn't threaten to tell the teacher, and he doesn't scold Adrien.

"Do you need an ice pack?"

Adrien shakes his head, "No, thank you. I'll be back in a minute."

The boy glances over his shoulder before flashing a thumbs up and ducking out. Adrien stares after him for a beat before remembering the phone and fishing it back out.

_**{ I panicked and ran. He asked me to go to a fashion show – a Gabriel Agreste fashion show, and I ran. }** _

_**[ why don't you say yes? ]** _

She was scared.

But maybe not for the reason he had initially feared.

_**{ I don't know. I mean, would that be weird? }** _

_**[ he asked you. do you really think it's weird for you to say yes when he obviously wants you to go? ]** _

_**{ …no? }** _

_**[ no. ]** _

Adrien takes a long draw of water, swishing it between his cheeks thoughtfully.

_**{ Meet me tonight. }** _

_**[ I thought we exchanged numbers so we wouldn't have to meet in purrson? ;) ]** _

_**{ It'll be somewhere else, and this time I'll pick. }** _

_**[ a secret business meeting? :D ]** _

Her response doesn't come immediately, and Adrien checks the time. Fencing will end in fifteen minutes, and then he'll be driven to a scheduled photoshoot. If he spends too long in the locker room, the instructor might inform Nathalie that he's feeling ill.

Then he'll find it hard-pressed to squeeze free of his room to go to school, or anywhere else.

Adrien crosses to his locker, tucking away his things. The phone buzzes as he's about to close the metal latch. The message is short, and he glimpses it as it lights the screen.

_**{ 9 p.m. in front of La Pagode.** _

_**Don't dress like a thug this time. }** _


	13. Chapter 13

More snow.

Marinette watches as it flutters against the window, a gentle persistence that settles in great heaps against her sill. Her eyes follow the snowflakes that swirl over the glass, catching briefly before crystallizing into frosty patterns.

It's impossible to forget winter in Paris, even on those days when the only note of its presence is the cold air and biting wind.

But Marinette has not forgotten the snow; for a few weeks now, it has been nearly the only thing on her mind.

She hasn't forgotten the last time it fell like this, sheeting heavily over the streets outside her home. She hasn't forgotten the way it clung to Chat's hair as he leaned into her room, eyes begging for entrance.

And even worse still, she wishes she could.

"You've been staring out the window for a while now," Tikki observes quietly.

The kwami is warm under her chin, tucked comfortably against her skin. They've laid like this since Marinette returned home after school, immediately passing out for a long nap. She can't say how long they've been here since she woke, but the snow wasn't falling when her eyes swept shut.

"I have a lot on my mind," she whispers.

Tikki hums, and the sound is soothing against her collarbone.

"I've noticed."

Marinette presses her face to her comforter. It's saturated with the scent of cinnamon, stemming from a lone candle sitting on her dresser.

She didn't used to burn candles, but since the cold months started moving in, she'd noticed Tikki's sluggish disposition growing more pressing.  
So she'd leave a lit candle in the room, somewhere where Tikki could curl beneath its small flame and rest comfortably. It had improved the kwami's temperament considerably.

"I heard your conversation with Chat Noir last night," Tikki says.

The remark breaks past her thoughts – and while the topic isn't unwelcome, it leaves Marinette with a sense of embarrassment she hadn't anticipated. It would be foolish to think her kwami wouldn't be aware of the late night encounters with her partner, even if the small creature slept through most of them.

As though sensing the girl's discomfort, Tikki shifts under her chin, nestling against Marinette's throat.

"There's no need to be embarrassed," the kwami murmurs, "It's not as though I haven't seen these things before."

Marinette pauses, her gaze moving from the frosted windowpane to her bedspread.

"You mean, with past Ladybugs and Chat Noirs?"

"Yes."

The soft, sweet voice is quiet. Marinette imagines another place, similar to this one, with the same little bug pressed to the skin of a different girl, in a different time. Watching the snow fall together, losing track of time and purpose.

There are few moments where the true implications of Tikki's existence weigh on Marinette's mind, but this is one of them. The things she must have seen, the places she must have been, skipping from generation to generation as time altered and shifted around her. Each time she woke it must have been to a new world, with strange people in strange places.

The concept stretches uncomfortably over Marinette's mind, and she struggles to distance herself from it.

Tikki hums again, and this time it doesn't feel nearly as assuring.

"You both looked close."

The meaning behind the kwami's words wedges into Marinette's reverie, and the girl is drawn back to the present.

Tikki must have seen more than she'd initially given her credit for.

Marinette fingers a thread on the blanket, collecting her thoughts carefully, mentally thumbing through the right things to say. No, the honest things to say. Because there's nothing to hide here – not with Tikki.

"He's my partner," she mumbles, "Of course we'd be close."

A thick stretch of quiet sweeps over them, and Marinette is glad for that pause. Wind strains against the pane, a high-pitched whistle that settles deep into the foundation. It draws Marinette's eyes to the latch on the window, left loose and unattended.

It'd probably be best to close it now.

"You've grown a lot in the past year," Tikki says.

The kwami's tone is fond and gentle, and it takes Marinette by surprise.

"You used to be so shy, so hesitant and unsure of yourself. When you accepted the Miraculous, I knew that it was only the beginning – and I'm so glad that I was right."

Marinette lifts herself up onto her elbow, resting her cheek on her palm as she considers the little bug with curious eyes.

"How could you possibly know?"

Tikki stares thoughtfully at the flurries. Her face is so small, so delicate and acquitted. But there's a weariness deeply set in those irises, worn by decades and countless lifetimes lived.

"There have been many Ladybugs," Tikki murmurs.

There's a pained gravity in the kwami's voice that leaves the space between them hushed.

"There has always been a need for Ladybug and Chat Noir, and there always will be. Hawkmoth has not been the first threat, and he will not be the last. After all the battles, all the eras and empires that have rose and fallen – I know what a hero looks like."

She looks up at Marinette then, and her gaze is unwavering.

"I saw one in you that day, and I have every day since."

She's not sure how to respond – not at first.

Marinette used to think that Tikki's presence in her life was one of accident or good fortune. The impossibility of their friendship, of two souls being brought together through time and circumstance could only be defined by providence or luck – if one believed in such things.

But since that first day, when the Miraculous had found its way into her hands, she'd begun to stop questioning the impossibility of it all. The fear of the unknown was quickly consumed by her affection for the kwami, and the fast-growing kinship that formed between them.

Providence or luck – it didn't matter anymore. Not now.

A swell of warmth clutches Marinette's chest as she stares down at the little creature. She traces her knuckle over an inky spot above the kwami's large-set eyes, smiling tenderly at her friend.

"I hope I can be good enough – for Paris, and for you."

The thought is more disheartening than she had intended it to be. It leaves a bittersweet taste in her mouth, and Marinette's finger trails down the kwami's small cheek before falling.

"Working alone isn't enough" Tikki ventures, "But, with the right teamwork…"

She chirps thoughtfully, a suspicious light in her eyes.

"Ladybug can't do everything; it's alright to let yourself trust in your partner."

Marinette sighs heavily, falling back onto the covers. Her eyes follow a path they've traversed countless times before, tracing the lines of plastic stars on the ceiling. She knows this topic without Tikki having to breach it – it's been tormenting her thoughts and occupying most of her dreams for some time.

The consequences of sharing her identity with Chat. The feelings and complications that would undeniably follow, and the confessions she'd have to live with – whatever those may be.

"I do trust him," she admits.

The words feel truer than anything that's left her head within the last several days. And she knows, the moment they've left her lips, that she didn't have to thread them together.

"It's not about trust, Tikki."

_It's dangerous._

Dangerous, because sharing her identity with Chat Noir is opening a new aspect of her personal life with him that should never have ventured beyond the mask. Dangerous, because being that vulnerable with him is opening a can of worms that she isn't willing to fish with. Not while Adrien is still in her life; not while there's conflicting emotions rivaled between them in her heart.

Dangerous, because there are faceless evils that lie in wait for the two of them, preying on moments of weakness. To know Chat's real face is to put him in danger if anything were to happen to her – and then she wouldn't be able to forgive herself.

"Knowing each other – working together in tandem and understanding one another completely – is a strength that every Ladybug and Chat Noir have come to embrace in time. Without it, you leave yourselves open to distraction."

It's a moment before Marinette realizes that Tikki said this out-loud, and it wasn't the inner-musings of her own mind.

She takes a deep, steadying breath.

"I'm not ready yet," Marinette whispers.

Tikki lets out a soft, little noise. She can't discern whether it's from exasperation or resignation, but Marinette finds it oddly endearing.

"No," the kwami agrees, "But you will be."

__________________________________________

It's two hours before she's supposed to meet Chat.

Paris is illuminated in rose-gold lights and neon billboards, the daily traffic reducing to a low, vibrant hum as night closes in.

The rooftops are blanketed in snow, and Marinette lets out an involuntary shiver each time she catches footing. Her suit protects her from the worst of it, but she can still feel the crunch of ice as she rolls to her feet, sinking through the ethereal material and straight to her bones.

It leaves her with a sense of longing for the scarves left unfinished in her room.

She hadn't anticipated fighting an akuma tonight – not when her meeting with Chat was so close. But Hawkmoth didn't follow convenience, and Paris waited for no one.

Alya's blog wasn't the first to catch the scent of a new villain. Sabine was watching the news when Marinette came downstairs, and images of the chaos were splashed across the screen. One hand on the banister, she'd twisted around, taking the steps two at a time before her mother noticed her presence.

She'd slipped a packet of crackers into her purse – as she'd been doing often lately, in case of emergency – and fumbled to escape the loft. It wasn't fast enough, seeing as by the time she reaches the scene (which is only a few blocks away from her home), Chat Noir is already there.

He's little more than a shadow, darting in and out of sight as the akuma lets out a strangled screech. Steam rises around its feet, snow melting in a circular circumference around the wrecked area. Cannon-sized holes gape in overturned cars, steel dripping like melted wax from hoods and bumpers. Cinders flare and burn where gears once were.

Marinette's eyes are already evaluating every detail, every niche and sliver of opportunity. She's slid into Ladybug's skin with ease, drawing on the confidence and careful intellect beneath the suit.

Chat's gaze locks with hers from beneath a lamppost, his attention momentarily arrested before a molten flash catches the pole behind him and consumes it. He rolls inches out of reach, green eyes bright and attentive as they flick back to the figure in front of him.

"LOOK AT ME!"

The voice is rough and gravelly, and it drags Marinette's attention to the akuma's looming shape.

Heated spines arc over the humanoid's back, smoldering veins lining its limbs. His brow slants over burning eyes, pupils consumed with the glow. An intense emotion lingers there, beneath the burn. Anger? Desperation?

Her gaze sweeps lower, searching.

There! Beneath one of the spines, a shape presses into the grove of his back.

"Chat!" Marinette shouts.

Two heads snap around, eyes settling on her petite figure. There's a moment of pause, where the akuma seems to consider her presence.  
Chat seizes the opening, bowing out of the creature's reach before winding around, making a dash for an obscured object some feet away. He scoops it up, but not before ducking beneath a rush of heat. There's a blur of movement, the akuma throwing back its arm, before a ball of fire arcs over Chat's head. He narrowly misses it.

He appears at her side, somehow managing a wry grin before he stoops forward and sucks in a breath.

"Always a pleasure, my lady."

There's ash in his hair, and it clings to his suit in a fine sheen. Her eyes move to his hand.

"You retrieved your baton?"

He lifts his head, and there's amusement in his gaze.

"I lost it in the heat of the moment."

If the akuma didn't turn on them then, a ball of heat and fire hurling toward their feet, Marinette might have smacked him.

"I'M RIGHT HERE," the voice bellows, "LOOK AT ME!"

Marinette lurches to her feet; she whirls around, eyes searching. She's scarcely collected herself before another mass of flames is launching through the air. A weight crashes into her, clawed hands clutching at her ribs as the breath is knocked out of her lungs.

Chat's voice is in her ear, muffled and fierce. Urging her to stand, to get on her feet.

"If you stay in one place for too long, he'll burn you," he says roughly.

Marinette drags in a lungful of smoke-choked air, her chest squeezing painfully.

"We can flank him," Chat says.

She shakes her head, "Let me think."

There's no time, and she knows it the moment she feels his hands at her waist again, his voice choked as he shouts her name.

The pain is brief. It kisses her jaw, tracing a thin line of fire over her exposed neck. She catches herself, palms splayed out, the adrenaline pumping through her body as fast as her heart can carry it. She can almost hear Chat's voice in her head.

_Move._

"Lucky Charm!"

The next several seconds are a blur. Red on red – the glare of fire on her suit as she races through melted snow. The hot, throbbing swell in her chest as she hooks her finger through the spotted fire extinguisher's latch.

"Flank!" she shouts.

Chat extends his hand, destructive power threading out from under his palm and webbing over the scorched lamppost. Metal groans as it lurches forward, colliding straight into the akuma's molten body. The creature rounds on it, and Ladybug slips into position behind the smoldering spines, releasing a cloud of powder from the extinguisher.

It engulfs the akuma, hissing steam rising in the air. Marinette drops the extinguisher, making a mad dash for the creature's stooped back. She hops forward, hooking her legs into the cooling spines. It releases a startled screech, rearing weakly as she slips her fingers through a strap wedged between the vertebrae. A pack.

Marinette's heart is racing, cheeks flushed as she rolls off the akuma. She rises on shaky legs, ripping the bag open with trembling hands. When the dark butterfly bursts free, desperately flitting into open air, her palm is already snapping the yoyo out.

"No more evil-doing for you," she rasps.

She drags a hand over her brow, sweat and ash on her tongue as she watches the butterfly flutter freely from the yoyo. Her heart hammers, knees wobbling as she sinks down into the wet, dead grass.

Somewhere to her left, a homeless man is returning to himself. He releases a weak, disbelieving sob, and she can hear Chat saying something to him in a low, gentle voice.

_"It'll all be okay now."_

_"Don't be afraid."_

The things they tell the victims. The things they repeat to themselves shortly thereafter.

The fire extinguisher dissipates, Miraculous light sweeping over the wreckage. Healing, cleansing – it leaves no trace of what happened here.  
Tomorrow the news will report another success from Paris' two favorite heroes – another catastrophe averted. Another incident swept under the rug as the civilians remain ignorant to the real danger that lies in wait, lurking somewhere in the city, waiting to prey on another vulnerable mind.

_"It's not about trust,"_ she hears herself saying.

She doesn't register Chat's hands on her face – not at first. He's cupping her cheeks gently, saying something in that soothing tone of his that he reserves for moments like these. Moments where she isn't a strong, fearless hero. Moments where she's weak and fearful and just a girl.

They are too few and far between.

"My Lady," he says softly, "We have to go."

He doesn't have to tell her that the reporters are rushing in, or that the media will be on top of them within minutes. She can feel their eyes, the press of their lenses as the vans come rushing in.

"The homeless man," she manages, "He needs a way to stay warm; he'll freeze out here."

Chat's brows knit over his eyes.

"He was akumatized because he was freezing to death. He needs to be kept safe, so it doesn't happen again."

Comprehension passes over his features, but there's something else. She can feel the concern in the way his eyes linger, grazing over her face before moving to the man. She can feel it in the way he squeezes her shoulders before standing and crossing to the oncoming reporters.

It was the slope of his brow when he held her face, searching her expression.

____________________________________________

For once, Marinette is glad for the snow on her skin. Clotted in Chat's palm, pressed to her cheek, she's grateful for the cold bite of it.

"I don't understand why it didn't disappear with the rest of the damage," her partner says quietly, "Usually when something happens to us in battle, the light takes care of it."

Her skin burns where the akuma's hot air caught her; a splotchy red trails the underside of her jaw and cuts-off at her neck, where the suit collar begins.

"The suits protect us, but they don't guard our faces."

Marinette winces as the numbness finally sets in, her hand lifting to cover his. Careful, verdant eyes study her.

"It should have fixed it."

"The Miraculous can't fix everything, Chat."

She tugs his hand away, replacing it with her own. She doesn't miss the way his fingers tangle with hers briefly, cold gloves brushing her chin as he lets his hand fall.

He watches her for a moment longer, and she can feel it again in his gaze. The concern – the remorse. It trails over her digits and rests where the angry red peeks out between them.

"You need something better for that."

"I'm fine," she says firmly.

But Marinette isn't fine.

She wants to apologize for the way her tone clips, the pained waver in Chat's eyes that she glimpses before he averts them. But she doesn't trust herself to say anything right now. Not after her talk with Tikki, and not after the battle they just went through.

Her head swims, but it's a welcome interruption from her thoughts. She can't grasp onto them, and the longer Chat looks at her like that, the more pressing the urge is to divulge everything she's wanted to say to him over these past few days.

A small beep clips next to her ear, a reminder that her time will run out soon. After several seconds, she pushes out a breath.

"A bandage may be a good idea," she concedes.

Chat looks up then. The angle of his body casts his face in darkness, but she can see the lift of his shoulders, the way his posture relaxes.

"There's a convenience store nearby," he says.

He lifts his hand, and she can see the faint, green paw print blinking out.

"I'll come back in ten minutes – so you have a chance to drop the transformation and switch it out before I get back."

Marinette nods, and it's a split moment before he breaks away, dropping onto a street below.

________________________________________________

"To be honest, I'm impressed that the clerk didn't even question you."

Chat laughs, "I bought it with civilian money – there's no way I could have explained the identification away while in costume."

Marinette crosses her legs, hands in her lap. The contents of a travel-sized first aid kit are spread across the shingles, bandages and gauze littered over the masonry. She prods an antiseptic with her finger, glancing at Chat.

His nose and cheeks are flushed – undoubtedly a reflection of her own.

Tikki shivered uncontrollably the entire time she ate the crackers in Marinette's purse. If they hadn't been on a time limit, the kwami may have been more reluctant to transform again so quickly.  
Marinette had checked her phone briefly in those few, stolen minutes.

Forty-five minutes until her designated meet-up with Chat.

If he's in a rush, he doesn't show it. His eyes are glued to the tube of salve in his hand, carefully dragging a claw over the instructions as he mouths them to himself.

"This should work on burns," he says out-loud, "But it doesn't say how much to use."

His expression is pinched and serious. Marinette lifts a hand over her mouth, stifling a smile as he scratches his head.

"Do you wait till it dries before you put the bandage on? Or do you put it on the bandage and then apply it?"

She must let out a noise of amusement, because Chat lifts his head, brows drawn together.

"Have you never burned yourself?" she asks evenly.

Something flashes across his face – embarrassment? His cheeks are already tinged a dark pink from the cold, so she struggles to discern it.

"I'm not allowed to participate in activities that may lead to injury," he admits quietly.

The confession settles into the pit of her stomach, and Marinette openly stares.

She's not sure what she imagined Chat Noir's personal life to be like. It'd been easier to distance herself from those curiosities, to pretend that his civilian life ceased to exist outside the boundaries of their professional relationship.

But over the past several weeks, she'd begun to wonder.

She'd seen the cheeky side of him that she'd been avoiding, the playful light in his eyes when they weren't immersed in a fight. It had slipped into her privacy, filling the spaces she'd meticulously held out of his reach, and now Chat resided in every aspect of her life.

She'd begun to wonder about the boy behind the mask, even though she pretended not to.

But she'd never envisioned sadness beneath his flirty, impish façade.

Marinette watches him as he scoots toward her, his eyes carefully focused on the things in his hands. Her knees brush his thighs, and she can feel his body heat through the suit, soaking into her skin.

Chat uncaps the salve, dropping the bandage and tape into his lap. His fingers are warm when they hook under her chin, lifting her face. The wind's chill has saturated her senses, numbing her body entirely, but his knuckles burn against her skin. It's not an unwelcome heat, and Marinette restrains herself from leaning into the touch.

"Stay still," he says.

It's unnerving, following Chat's lead. So often the tables are reversed, and she finds herself disarmed by the resolution in his tone.

She can't feel the salve, but she can feel the graze of his claws over her jawline. His gaze is half-lidded, focused on the slope of her neck where the burn cuts short of her collar. She's trapped in those long seconds, where every drag of his fingertips makes the breath in her chest strain.

She almost afraid to release it, to let herself move under his hand. But the air is harsh and betraying as it rushes out of her, a painful gust in the closed proximity between them. It stirs the fine, blond hairs on his forehead, and Chat's brows lift fractionally.

A soft smile tilts his lips, but she can't read it. It ducks past her vision as he leans forward, and her thoughts halt abruptly.

Chat's breath fans against her throat, hair tickling her nose.

"It's not supposed to dry," she says tremulously, "So you don't have to blow on it."

He must feel the way she trembles, the unsteady lilt in her voice that she struggles desperately to contain. But his expression is a composed slate of nonchalance as he withdraws, his hands moving to his lap to retrieve the bandage.

"I apologize."

There's no amusement in his tone, no layered meaning behind his words. But it strikes her once he presses the bandage to her face – the reservation in his expression and the stiffness in his posture. His touch is hesitant, precise.

"Chat," she whispers.

Green irises flick up, gloved digits growing still at her cheek. His unguarded gaze stirs a fresh batch of nerves in her stomach. Ladybug's voice is quiet, uncertain.

"Did I say something?"

She's worried for her partner's feelings before, but never like this. It's always been a consideration for his thoughts, his ideals and opinions on their teamwork. But this is different.

He is very still, and she wonders at the trepidation in his gaze.

"I made you uncomfortable," he murmurs, "And I apologized for it."

This time the humiliation that blooms in his cheeks is indisputable.

She's at a loss for words, partially because of his consideration, and partially because of the appreciation that swells in her toward it.

Chat strips off the tape, gently smoothing it over the bandage with averted eyes. It's not perfect – she can feel the bumps and multiple pieces he's overlapped – but his touch is gentle, and it leaves a warmth in her chest that she can't pinpoint.

"It isn't pretty," he utters, "But it will stay."

Her palm slides over his wrist, staying his hand and drawing his attention to her face.

"Thank you; you didn't have to do this."

His expression shifts – startled, disbelieving. It's brief, the surprise in his eyes, but it doesn't escape her. His smile is slow, and Marinette watches with a sense of relief as it curves his lips, breaking past the disposition that had settled between them.

"Of course I did. You're my lady."

He slips his fingers under hers, and she watches with trepidation as he lifts her hand to his mouth. His breath is warm, and she imagines if there weren't a suit separating her skin from his lips, it'd stir over her cold fingers.

She's grateful when he lets her hand fall.

"I have to go," he says suddenly.

Marinette blinks owlishly, "Where?"

The question echoes in her brain, stimulating a distant thought.

"I have a friend to visit, and I'm going to be late if I don't hurry."

He's staring openly into her face, and the tormenting seconds that follow devastate her as the realization sweeps in.

"Oh!"

His brows lift, and Marinette swallows down her alarm.

"I mean – I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was keeping you."

He scoops up wrappers and bandages, carefully placing them back into the kit. A rising sense of dread settles into Marinette's chest.

"She'll understand," he says.

And he's not wrong – she does.

He's going to leave here to meet with Marinette, and he's going to see the bandage on her face. There's no masking this, no way of pretending it isn't there. There will be no way out of this one, and there's no time to beat him there.

She understands all too well.

Chat snaps the first aid closed, turning to face her.

"You can take this home with you. I'm sure you'll have more use of it than me."

When he presses it into her hands, she takes it. Her heart slams against her rips, mind whirling.

_Think. Think._

"I'll see you later?"

And then he's turning, fingers cutting across his brow in that obnoxious, little salute she's come to recognize. Marinette throws out a hand, catching his arm. He startles, eyes snapping to hers, and she panics. There's no time left to come up with something.

"Why don't we hang out?"

_Because that isn't abrupt or suspicious **at all**._

She's acting out of character tonight – far more brash and vulnerable than Chat has come to know her for. This could be it. After all her fear, all her doubt and uncertainty over revealing herself to him, it was all going to come crashing down anyway.

His lips part, and she can see the confusion knitting in his brow. It shadows behind his eyes, passing over his features.

"I– I can't."

Marinette sounds desperate now, and she knows it. She's mentally threading together a route through this – but the words don't make sense, and they're escaping her mouth before she's had a moment to evaluate them.

"If it doesn't work out…would you like to meet?"

He's dumbfounded.

She hasn't seen him this lost for words and this flustered since… well, never.

"Well, I… I mean, yes? No, yes! No, I don't mean 'no', I mean–"

Chat swallows thickly, and not for the first time tonight, Marinette glimpses the boy beneath the Miraculous. His flirty grin is gone, replaced by wide-eyed uncertainty. It swoops through her stomach and rattles her thoughts. She's never seen Chat Noir blush – not like this evening.

"I'll probably be out for a little while longer, so just contact me if you're able to."

Marinette lets her hand fall, tapping it against her yoyo as she offers him a conspiratorial smile. It doesn't have the effect she intended. He takes a few unsteady steps toward the ledge of the roof, flustered.

"Right! Yeah, I'll…uhm… do that."

He pauses, seeming to collect his surroundings as he throws a glance at the street below. He shoots her a lopsided smile, uttering out a few incoherent goodbyes before dropping out of sight.

________________________________________________

The room is just as she left it. A coat is still thrown across her chaise, winter boots propped against the leg. The neutral temperature soaks into Marinette's body like a warm remedy, and she's grateful for it.

She crosses to her desk, slipping a post-it note out onto one of her notebooks.

_**Something came up** _

_**– M** _

She presses it to the inside of the window, praying it'll hold.

To text him would risk his suspicion. The timing would be off, and then she'd have to hope he'd detransform and check his phone. It's not a mistake she's willing to make.

Marinette nearly grabs the coat, pausing at her balcony latch with a glance of longing in its direction.

_He might recognize it_ , she tells herself.

As though she's not already covering enough tracks already. As though this interaction with Chat Noir hasn't completely complicated her life more than it ever has been.

When she steps off the balcony railing, the cold air fills her lungs.

_______________________________________________

They both agree it's too cold to spend time together trailing rooftops and making idle chitchat in the snow.

Marinette would have never agreed to his suggestion on any other day, during any other time of the year. But it was freezing, and Chat had a way of sounding convincing when her fingers and toes were numb.

"I'll cover your eyes," he promises, "You won't even know where we are."

"That isn't comforting, Chat," Marinette deadpans.

He laughs, looping an arm around her shoulders. His other hand throws out his baton, extending it as she hooksher arms around his neck. For once, she's thankful for the proximity if only it means she can find warmth there.

"If I killed you, who would save Paris?" he muses.

Marinette presses her face into his neck, his pulse thrumming against her cheek.

"If your evil masterplan falls into place – no one."

The hum of amusement in his throat follows throughout their banter, and Marinette finds comfort in it during the short trip to his 'secret place'. She keeps her eyes closed, just as he instructed her to – but whether it's for his sake or hers, she isn't quite sure.

It isn't until he lowers her through a window, her feet touching the floor of a painfully spacious room, that she opens them.

"No lights," Chat whispers, "So you can't recognize where we are."

"Have I been here before?"

She doesn't realize she's asked the question until it's echoed against the walls, filling the space around them. Chat pauses, and she wishes she hadn't asked.

"Maybe."

He reaches for her wrist, and she lets him take it.

She can feel the darkness closing around them like a vice. By moonlight she can glimpse her feet, the outline of furniture and looming walls. Space one human couldn't possibly occupy, and an expanse of darkness that snuffs her senses.

"Here," he murmurs.

His voice is low, but almost too-loud in the aching quiet. She can nearly hear her heartbeat, drowning out the scuff of feet on tile.

Chat presses on her shoulders gently, and Marinette eases down onto something soft. She smooths her hands over the surface, finding it yielding and plush. Firm, but almost…

"Is this...?"

"A bed," he supplies.

His voice is distant – somewhere nearby, shuffling through papers and fabric. She can feel him shifting in the dark, winding a path around the furniture like one intimate with his surroundings. And considering his familiarity with it, and the mattress beneath her legs, he undoubtedly is.

Marinette's chest squeezes, a new sense of discomfort settling into her gut.

"So, this is your…room?"

There's a beat that passes, and she can sense him moving through the dark. When his leg brushes hers, she nearly leaps out of her skin.

"I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable," he says quietly, "I promise."

He doesn't touch her, but there's a closeness here in the dark that draws a strange intimacy without it.

Perhaps it's the alluring, soft press of his sheets, or the sincerity in his voice, that drives a sense of comfort through Marinette. It draws her mind back to the rooftop, with the remorse and vulnerability in his eyes.

She can hear herself saying, "I believe you."

Because Tikki's words have followed her throughout the night, and they rest heavily on her lids as exhaustion tugs at the recesses of her mind.

The conversation drifts through Marinette's mind as her head sinks into one of the pillows. It haunts her thoughts as Chat stretches-out next to her. It circles her head as she becomes less coherent, and her whisperings with her partner begin to reduce to a low hum. She can register him distantly, murmuring to her as though she's still awake.

And for a while longer, she tries to be.

_I'll go home in a little bit_ , she assures herself.

A little bit longer, while Chat's fingers thread through hers on the bedspread. A little bit longer, while his low, velvety voice paints scenes of beautiful architecture and perfect days. A little bit longer while he whispers confessions she won't possibly remember in the morning.

_It's not about trust._

But maybe some part of it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bless each and every one of you that takes time to leave a comment and waits patiently for my infrequent updates._ **Thank you.**


	14. Chapter 14

There are few things Adrien remembers about his mother.

Her absence was brief in the larger picture, where some children would have had perhaps moments, or nothing at all. Adrien could recall her presence in his life, a warm familiarity that loomed in his doorway and brushed kisses over his face before bed. Unlike some children, he was lucky. He had pictures, he had a father that was still present and provided everything he could ever need or hope for.

But he didn't have her.

And with each month that passes, it feels as though her existence becomes increasingly indistinguishable in his memory.

His father doesn't talk about her, for fear of stirring something deeply buried or out of grief, Adrien is uncertain. So, he clings to the few things he has, treasured and carefully hidden in the privacy of his room.

If he lies very still at night, sometimes he can recall her touch, or the soft tone of her voice. It pacifies his thoughts and helps him sleep. In those late hours, her memory ghosts over him and bleeds into his dreams. And for once, her smile isn't caught in a picture. He can almost see it clearly, and it feels so real that Adrien forgets that it isn't there at all.

He hasn't felt that sort of peace in a long time.

But with Ladybug, he can remember it. He can remember how it felt to sleep deeply, to sink into the sheets without the company of his loneliness. And the sound of her short, slow breaths chase away the long hours he would have spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling.

Adrien doesn't know when he falls asleep. It finds him, somewhere between his whispered musings to his partner and the slack heat of her palm against his. He isn't aware of sleep until it releases him, and he can feel the morning light weighing on his eyelids.

He forgets himself for a moment. So often his sleep is accompanied by thoughts of his mother, by the scent of her perfume and the soft press of her hand on his face. He doesn't register at first the legs tangled with his, or the arm looped over his waist. He feels the hair on his cheek, the soft skin of a face pressed to his collarbone.

Remnants of sleep still cling to Adrien, languid and heady, and the line between dreams and reality is unclear. He shifts against the warm weight on his chest, turning to press his face into it, seeking out the comfort it offers. His nose buries in the crook of her neck, hands bunching in the scratch of fabric, the shape of something firmer and more promising beneath. He fists his hands into the material, dragging the heat closer until there's no space left, and he can't distinguish where her body begins and where his ends.

Adrien inhales, and the sweet, honeyed scent of vanilla fills his senses. God, he knows this smell; he loves this smell. He's dreamt of it, clothed in nightgowns and punctuated by blue eyes and cheeky smiles. He's longed for it from a snow-topped windowsill, but not here. Not in his bed, with shared body heat and tousled sheets.

His palm drags over the small of her back, where the fabric is bunched and loose, giving way to a smooth expanse of skin. She lets out a soft sigh, and Adrien mirrors it. If this is a dream, it's not an unwelcome one.

In his sleep, he has lived vivid, unbelievable realities. Being a superhero as an alternate persona is more fuel than the average person's mind would find use for. Admittedly, Ladybug has played an active role in many of them – even the ones he couldn't possibly recall in the presence of polite company.

But this is something else entirely.

This is warm and lethargic, like a steady drizzle on a leisure afternoon, droplets zigzagging over the glass and dripping down the pane. It's her fingers hooked in the thick material of his sweater, hot breath fanning over his collarbone until it's the only thing he can think about. It's the taste of salt on her skin when he presses a sleepy kiss to her neck, nuzzling into the slope of her shoulder until she releases a contented noise. It's natural and intoxicating – a long, deep breath that fills his lungs and leaves him dizzy.

Her palm finds his chest, and there's a delighted sense of panic when he feels the warm pressure through his sweater. She must feel his heart now, straining under her fingers. It slams against his ribs, gaining momentum with every breath she fans against his cheek.

"My Lady," he murmurs.

His voice is soft and wanting, like a prayer. The words embody a need so tangible that it sinks into his bones, leaving an ache wherever their bodies touch. It feeds a hunger he didn't realize he had.

Slender fingers, bare and delicate, ghost over his collarbone. Her nose brushes Adrien's cheek, and he feels lashes on his skin. He can taste the corner of her mouth, soft lips that jackhammer his heart until it might burst. And he's so close – so impossibly close – that he doesn't register her naked touch.

Not until her hand finds his unmasked cheek, and he feels her stiffen against him. And then recognition slaps them both.

Adrien manages to catch her wrist as she wrenches away from him. His eyes have already flown open, but there's only a flurry of blankets, and he realizes too late he should have never looked. A deep, heavy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach.

"Ladybug, I– wait, I promise I didn't– "

God, this was a mistake.

"Please wait," he pleads.

His grasp on her is loose, but he lets go immediately. Despite the desperation that leaps to his throat, he swallows it down when he feels her draw back. She must be scared, confused. Possibly angry with him – and she has right to be.

Chat Noir is one of the people she trusts absolutely, someone that holds more confidence with her than most. And yet she woke up with his hands on her body, without being given direct consent. If she doesn't feel disgusted with him, he certainly does on her behalf.

Ladybug's voice is small and tremulous, and it shakes him.

"Did you see?" she whispers.

Some small part of him wretchedly wishes he had, and he instantly regrets it.

"No," he answers honestly.

Adrien licks his lips, clearing the morning from his throat. His voice is husky, and not just from waking up; if he wasn't embarrassed before, he definitely is now.

"Thank God," she breathes.

She sighs heavily, and the relief in her voice leaves Adrien both startled and guilt-ridden. Of course she feels relieved – why wouldn't she?

They sit in silence for a stretch of minutes, Adrien's thoughts racing in the space between them. His eyes remain closed, but he can hear her shift and move somewhere to his left.

She doesn't speak, and the prolonged silence feeds the guilt in his gut. He should never have let her fall asleep here, nor brought them into this situation to begin with. He could have been practical, told her that spending time together in that weather wasn't feasible. This entire situation could have been prevented.

Or he could have just kept his hands to himself.

_Damn it._

"Tikki?" she calls softly.

Adrien remains very still, listening. Another voice answers Ladybug, but it's unrecognizable. He can't place it, and it's a moment before he realizes that it's her kwami.

"Yes, I'm here."

Shrill, but not unpleasant. There's a soothing quality in the creature's tone that briefly balms his sadness.

"Oh, good," Ladybug breathes, "Transform me, please."

There's no sound, and Adrien remains motionless, his mouth thick with trepidation. He visualizes her standing in his room, looking at him openly, completely exposed. The thought isn't completely an unwelcome prospect. To be unmasked here, like this.

At least there would be one less secret between them.

"You can look now," she says quietly.

For one fleeting, breathless moment, he imagines her revealing herself to him, right here and now. But Adrien's eyes open, and the image is gone.

She sits on the edge of his mattress, hands in her lap. She's a sight of familiar spots and ribbons, just like he knew she would be. But the disappointment still finds him, and he wishes it hadn't.

"I haven't looked," Ladybug promises.

He never thought she would.

"I know," he says.

The panic has dissipated between them, and now there is something else. It's palpable and daunting, and Adrien feels it bleed into his already conflicted disposition.

He should call for Plagg.

He knows she expects it, with how she sits impatiently, eyes screwed closed and brow knitted. And he feels he should, too. He's already monopolized enough of her time, embarrassed the both of them and made a fool of himself.

But the darker, more selfish part of him wishes he would tell her to open her eyes.

It could all end right here.

The lies, the fear – the constant worry and indecisiveness that lingers in their interactions. It could all be laid bare, right here, just like it had been only moments before.

Adrien slips off the bed, stepping only an arm's length from her. He studies the slope of her brow, the niche above her nose where she focuses too hard. The line of the mask, arcing over features that he's only dared to imagine in his dreams.

_I won't take that from her. Not without her consent – not again._

"Plagg, transform me."

The kwami lets out a shrill noise of discontent as he's sucked from his hiding place and into the ring. Adrien will no doubt hear an earful for it later.

"I won't be able to look – you'll have to guide me out," Ladybug says.

He honestly hadn't thought of that. Somehow, he'd forgotten the details of this arrangement, and what it would mean if she woke up here. She's right, of course.

"I didn't see anything," she adds, "I stayed under the blankets until I transformed, and then I kept my eyes closed."

He speaks evenly, hoping she can't hear the disappointment in his tone.

"Good thinking."

He tentatively slides his hand over hers, and Ladybug starts. A sheepish smile curves her lips, but she lets him pull her up, and Adrien resists the urge to indulge in the contact. She trusts him.

Even after their encounter only minutes ago, she still trusts him.

The window pane remains unlocked from the night before, and a gust of cold, morning air rushes his face when he pushes it open. Her grip tightens, and he glances back to see her wrinkle her nose.

"Is it still snowing?"

Adrien suppresses a smile, "No."

Ladybug relaxes visibly, and she reaches out, finding his shoulder with her free hand. He loops an arm around her waist, pulling her into his chest. It a fluid motion, something that they've done countless times before. But it isn't the same.

There's morning frost on his breath, steaming past his lips as he extends his staff over the rooftops. The snow is deeper in places, and his staff cracks on ice, nearly slipping from his grip more than once. Ladybug remains silent when he regains his balance, tightening his grip on her as he adjusts the weight. It's a nameless certainty that she harbors, a confidence in his skills that he doesn't understand.

It's familiar – the dark hair under his nose, sweet shampoo and short, warm breaths against his throat. The click of the extension, and the snap of ice, nearly conjures a thought at the back of his mind. But it's chased away, and her voice is in his ear.

"Are we far enough? I think there's enough distance now."

He wants to say no. No, it's not enough distance, and there's not enough time.

But he doesn't say that, and instead he drops onto a terrace. It's dusted in white, empty pots and a forgotten chess table. But there's no one in sight, and he slips his baton back onto his hip, eyes roaming over the lounge chairs before settling on her.

Adrien gently tugs on her arms, and she lowers her feet, red toes sinking into the snow. She shivers, and he feels it travel through the tips of his fingers and over his spine. Ladybug laughs, and it's short, clipped and nervous.

They stand quietly, touching, but motionless. There's an undefined stillness that's settled between them, and neither one can bring themselves to relinquish it.

Her eyes are open, but she isn't looking at him. She focuses on his chest, and it's a moment before he realizes she's looking at his bell. He can't see her expression entirely, but there's a soft hesitation in her eyes that he can't place.

"I'm sorry," he says.

He's said it unconsciously, but the admission of his guilt still rings soundly in the space between them, and it summons a discontent he'd been hoping to leave behind.

"About earlier," he clarifies.

She doesn't move, but he can hear her intake of breath.

"I know."

His heart sinks.

"I mean, about earlier!" she fumbles, "I didn't mean that I knew you were sorry, I meant that I knew what you were referring to…"

Ladybug looks at him then, and there's a flush in her cheeks. If it were any darker, it'd complement the mask.

"I wasn't trying to sound presumptuous, I just–"

She buries her face in her hands, letting out a distressed noise.

"That sounded rude, didn't it? God, I'm sorry."

Chat stares openly. It could be the tension, or the ridiculous line of the situation that bubbles through him. He's been on edge all morning, and now he's standing in the cold with his feelings stripped bare, and Ladybug is fumbling for words.

The absurdity washes over him, and he's barely retrained himself before a cough of laughter has broken past his lips.

She glances up at him, incredulous.

"How is this funny?"

It's not funny – or, it shouldn't be. Her nose is pink, lips chapped with frost. But somehow the sight of her small face, framed with disheveled pigtails, sends him into a fit of hysterics.

Ladybug swats his arm, and he lets out a choked noise of amusement.

"What is wrong with you!?"

He shakes his head, "I'm trying to apologize and you're interrupting me."

She glowers at him, lips pressed into a thin line. There's a brief second of indecision, where he thinks she may smack him or walk away. But her shoulders fall, and he sees the tension in her brow dissolve into resignation.

"Sorry," she says.

A smile tugs at his lips.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman, and you're stealing my limelight."

She scoffs, and her voice is laden with sarcasm.

"Because you are a shining example of mannerly conduct."

"My Lady, I'm wounded. I am nothing if not a gentleman," he says crisply.

She laughs.

"Oh, I could think of a few things."

Chat beams, "Handsome? Irresistible?"

Her face is warming, something akin to pleasure in her blue irises. It goads him on, soothing his inhibitions and drawing him in.

"A pushy stray, for starters."

She says it lightly, but mirth dances in her eyes when she looks at him. Warmly, like the lyrics to a song he can't quite forget. Familiar, haunting…

And then Chat's tongue thickens, and he feels himself staring.

Ladybug wriggles from his grasp, her hands sliding from his chest. Her smile fades, her expression turning somber.

"We have been apologizing to each other a lot lately, haven't we?" she observes.

His eyes trail over her features.

At the dark strands of hair that wisp around her face. The frost that catches on her lashes, the faint splash of freckles that peek just below the ridge of the mask. Details, pinches of character…

"I made you promise before, to tell me if there's something bothering you. And I meant it," she ventures.

Ladybug hugs her arms, studying the space between their toes where the snow furls over the sleek material of their suits.

"I've been expecting honesty from you, but I've been keeping you at an arms-length."

His stomach dips, and Adrien feels himself grow still.

"Our partnership is important to me. I shouldn't expect something of you unless I'm willing to do it, too. And I guess what I'm trying to say is–" she bites her lip, glancing away, "I was wrong."

His eyes follow her hand as she brushes back her bangs. Slender, lovely digits combing back her hair, as he's seen her do a thousand times before.

But it's not the same.

_Better a prince._

"I want to be more honest with you," she says quietly.

His heart thrums, racing immeasurably faster than he can ever remember it going before. It almost makes him light-headed.

Ladybug reaches out, touching his hand gently. It's no more than a brush of the fingers – light, gentle.

_Better a prince._

He sees her mouth moving, forming the words. But his pulse is in his ears, and he can hardly hear anything else.

"So, if you'll give me just a little more time…I want to show you who I am."

The same eyes. Same lips. Same smile…

Her hand falls to her side, and Chat sucks in an uneven breath.

She stares at him for a minute longer, expectant. But he can't shape the words. They're caught in his throat, dying on his lips before they've even fully formed.

Ladybug flushes, reaching for her yoyo.

"I'll let you think about it. I know it's sudden, and after everything…"

She toys with the string, glancing at her feet. When she reaches for the bannister, Chat doesn't move to stop her.

_Better a prince._

"I'll talk to you later, Chat."

She disappears over the railing, the zip of the lining retrieving into the distance. Over hushed, snow-filled streets. Over the city that they've loved and protected together.

But he's looking at the two small shapes in the snow, where her feet stood only seconds before. Where she was just a girl, in a suit, behind a mask.

Before she was someone else.

Someone that he kissed above a bakery.

_Better than a pushy stray._


	15. Chapter 15

It's late in the afternoon, cool sunlight slanting over cobbled streets.

Marinette treads carefully over the ice, neck craned as she peers around the bags in her arms. She's not renowned for finesse, and the image of slipping and falling face-first into the concrete seems more probable than she'd like.

The shopping was supposed to have ended an hour ago, but it'd been so long since she'd been able to spend quality time with Alya, and the minutes had trickled by.

She's missed the amiable, relaxed atmosphere between them. Fighting akumas, saving Paris, and sorting out her own feelings doesn't allow much time for adolescent indulgences. But this was a small pleasure, and she's grateful for it.

Alya reaches between them, snatching a bag from her friend's arm. She slings it over her own shoulder, and Marinette releases an exasperated noise.

"I had it covered."

Alya laughs, "Right. It was obvious from the way you were tip-toeing around the patches of snow. You should have seen your face; you don't even look that focused for tests."

It's cold, but Alya's face is tinged a warm pink. It blooms in her cheeks and colors her nose, peeking over the thick scarf looped at her throat. Despite the air steaming past her lips, and the obvious tremble in her voice, she's beaming. It's an elation Marinette has seldom glimpsed in recent days.

It's good to see her like this – outside of school, and away from their separate responsibilities. It brings a sense of normalcy that Marinette has severely missed.

She adjusts her bags, eyes sweeping over the blogger in quiet observation.

"If we're pointing out each other's expressions, what about _yours_?"

Alya glances up, eyebrows lifting.

"What about it?"

Marinette fixes her with a side-eye.

"Over the past few days, you've been conspiring with Nino. Don't think I haven't caught you passing notes to each other during school; I don't sleep all the time."

Alya elbows her, feigning shock with a wide-eyed gasp, but there's a glint of amusement behind her spectacles.

"So _that's_ why you stopped drooling so much."

"Hey!"

Marinette glowers at her, but there's a playful tone to their exchange that simmers pleasantly between them. Even now, bags bumping against their legs and faces flushed from the cold, any passerby could sense the companionable atmosphere.

They round the frosted sidewalks, passing skeletal branches and wrought-iron fences. Place des Vosges is still lovely, even in the winter.

Marinette can remember several holidays spent here. Gloves caked with snow, frost in her hair as she ran across the street to her parents' bakery. The scent of bread wafting across the cobblestones, cakes baking in the ovens as last-minute customers crowded in front of the store. They spent many Christmases like that – catering and baking until the late hours of the night.

They are good memories.

The kind that she safely tucks into her pockets for sad days, when the bakery schedule is particularly grueling or her parents forget important dates in lieu of working long shifts.

Alya sinks onto a park bench, dropping the bags for a momentary release. She sags against the wood, head falling back.

"I shouldn't have bought so much."

Marinette settles next to her, letting her purchases slide to the ground. If she weren't wearing a coat, she imagines the bags would have left imprints on her arms.

"Don't you have an allowance?"

Alya pauses, as though considering the question. She stares pointedly at the branches above their heads, garnished heavily with tendrils of ice.

"I used my Christmas money, but I should have put more aside. I need to save-up for a new camera."

Marinette focuses on her shoes, trying for a casual tone.

"For the Ladyblog?"

Alya nods, and a familiar excitement shimmers across her features. It's brief, but it's unmistakable, and for a moment Marinette realizes she may have stepped into the wrong topic. Talking about Ladybug right now, when they've spent a handful of pleasant hours away from those secrets, sounds less than ideal. And once Alya gets started, one is hard-pressed to bring the conversation to a close.

"You didn't answer me before," she blurts, "About Nino."

It's abrupt, but the statement snuffs the growing enthusiasm in Alya's expression. She sits up, glancing at Marinette inquisitively.

"About what?"

"Don't play sly – you know what I'm talking about," Marinette prods.

Alya lifts her brows, "Maybe I don't."

"Do you like him?"

The look of astonishment that flashes across Alya's face is almost enough to wrench a laugh from Marinette. Her friend shakes her head fervently, waving off the accusation.

" _Nino_?! God, please. No, of course not!"

Alya rolls her eyes, crossing her arms.

"As though I could possibly date that guy! He's a great friend, but no."

An image from a few weeks before, of the two of them skating across the ice and looking particularly cozy rises to mind, but Marinette shelves the thought.

"So, you're not going on a date with him…?" she ventures.

Alya's brows slope, her eyes questioning.

"Why would you think that?"

Marinette busies herself with a thread on her pants.

"Well, because Adrien approached me after school the other day, and he said that Nino–"

Alya starts, her eyes gleaming.

"Wait, Adrien talked to you after school?"

She'd intended on keeping the conversation steered away from her personal life. It'd been a successful feat – until now.

"Yeah," she says quietly.

Reading her expression, Alya's eagerness wanes.

"What did he say?"

Marinette flushes, and despite her hesitance, the words tumble past her lips.

"Nothing bad! Just, you know, 'Hey, Marinette. It's a lovely day today isn't it? And oh, by the way, you look pretty and I'd like you to go to this fashion show you've been dreaming about attending ever since you found out it existed–"

Alya lets out a shriek.

"He said _what_?!"

Embarrassment crawls up Marinette's neck, and she glances at her hands. Alya grabs them, red and tangerine gloves intertwining as she squeezes her friend's chilled fingers.

"God, you had me worried for a moment! This is _awesome_ , girl!"

"It's a fashion show that Nino is taking _you_ to," Marinette points-out.

Alya rolls her eyes.

"Girl, you know I don't do fashion. We're going for _you_."

Despite Alya's consistent history of selflessness, Marinette hadn't considered that possibility. Though, she probably should have. Adrien _did_ mention Alya when he was talking to her about the fashion show.

She had been distracted in the moment, seized with panic, and most of the things he said after their spill on the steps had bled into a low hum. Even conjuring the memory fills her stomach with unease, and she's left fumbling with the humiliation all over again.

"Maybe I'm crazy," Alya says, "But I thought you'd be happier than this."

Marinette's head snaps up, her cheeks burning from the reverie.

"No! No, I am happy. I mean…"

She shakes her head, eyes darting to her hands – Alya's hands. Their fingers, laced together, warmer now that they're entwined.

"I ran off, Alya."

She focuses on the individual threads, on the pinpricks of skin glimpsed in between. Shielded from the cold wind, but still visible – still vulnerable.

Alya sighs softly.

"You panicked."

"I panicked," Marinette concedes.

There's a breath of silence, and it's enveloping. It's in the rustle of the branches, winter air biting their exposed noses as it breezes by. It's in the warm, curling clouds that escape their lips and dissipate in the space between them as Alya collects her thoughts.

And despite the reprieve in the conversation, Marinette's thoughts are drawn to a low buzz. Her phone hums faintly in her pocket, and it rouses her attention briefly. But she's too comfortable with Alya right now, like this. And she distantly writes it off for now.

"You know what sounds great?" Alya says suddenly.

Marinette perks up, "What?"

"Your Dad's macarons."

The two pause, gazes meeting, and then identical smiles split across their faces. Alya laughs first, and Marinette follows.

"Alright, macarons first – boy talk later," she agrees.

Alya stands, reaching for her bags, and Marinette leans over the bench to grab her own. She feels her phone again, and this time it hums twice.

"Never solve boy problems on an empty stomach," Alya says.

Marinette slips the bags over her arms, reaching into her pocket to fish it out. Her best friend is already several steps ahead of her – footprints retracing the ones that were left when they arrived.

**_[ are you home yet? ]_ **

Marinette chews at her glove, tugging her digits free. Her fingertips are numb, slipping over the slick screen as she opens her recent messages. She thumbs through them, absently at first, and then more carefully.

**_[ we need to talk ]_ **

**_[ as soon as possible ]_ **

\--------------------------------------------

It's warmer in the bakery.

Sweets line the display cases, holiday-themed cakes and fresh bread. Marinette can smell the tarts baking in the back, filling the little shop with a delicious, heady atmosphere.

The door chimes as the two girls walk through, and Sabine glances up from her task at the counter.

"You're back later than usual," her mother observes.

Marinette lets the bags slip to the floor, releasing a sigh of relief as they leave her shoulders. Alya shivers next to her, hooking a finger in her scarf. She tugs it past her chin, flashing Sabine a friendly smile.

"They had late Christmas sales that we couldn't pass up."

Sabine lifts an inquisitive brow, eyes meeting Marinette's gaze briefly. Her expression is reserved, but there's a motherly pinch in her questioning smile that makes Marinette's spine tingle.

"I passed up quite a few," Marinette hastily supplies.

After a pause, Alya glances between them, offering a conspiratorial addition.

"Most of these are mine."

Sabine hums thoughtfully, returning to the papers scattered under her hands.

"You can leave them in the back, then. Until you're ready to leave."

Alya reaches for the bags at her feet.

"Thank you, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng!"

Marinette shoots the other girl an admonishing grimace, but she's only met with a cheeky smile.

"All of that walking must have been exhausting. There are cookies in the kitchen if you girls are hungry."

From the back of the bakery, Alya answers with an enthusiastic noise of approval. Marinette and her mother exchange a brief look, mirroring identical smiles.

She's barely had a moment to bend forward and collect her purchases when she feels her phone hum against her leg again. Marinette pauses, bags dangling precariously from her arms as she dips her hand into her pocket.

**_[ When will you be home? ]_ **

She stares at the text for a half beat, eyes roaming over each word a second time before she glances at the sender.

She must have forgotten to respond to him.

**_{ It might b a while. I hav 2 get my thusg put away and eat dinner }_ **

**_{ *things }_ **

Her hands are stiff and chilled, and she inwardly admonishes herself for her sloppy response. But his answer appears so quickly, she doesn't have time to turn off the screen.

**_[ I'll just wait here then. ]_ **

**_{ …here? }_ **

The three little dots bounce under her message, notifying her that he is typing. And she doesn't have to wait long.

**_[ In your room. ]_ **

It's a full second before the words process through her brain.

Marinette's mouth goes dry. Her head snaps up, eyes cutting across the room. But Alya is nowhere in sight, and her stomach drops as she realizes that the girl has already gone upstairs.

Her fingers are cold and numb, fumbling as she desperately taps out a reply. But the words are jumbled and autocorrected, and her heart is already slamming against her ribs in an anxious drumline.

Marinette drops the bags in the back room, carelessly shoving them under the table before making a mad dash up the stairs.

"Alya!"

The door to the apartment is wide open, and Marinette tumbles through, barely catching her footing before she connects with the wall.

"Alya!"

Said girl pauses on the steps to the loft, twisting around to regard her breathless friend. Her brows lift inquisitively, one hand on the bannister, the other frozen midreach for the trap door.

"Yes?"

Marinette straightens, eyes passing between Alya's outstretched fingers and the only thing separating her from an entirely new world of complications.

"Let's hang out down here – in the living room!"

Alya blinks.

"Why?"

"My…ah, room. It's a mess."

Alya rolls her eyes, "Girl, you know I don't care about that. You've seen mine."

Her hand inches upward, and Marinette releases a high-pitched, strangled noise, somewhere between a shriek and a shout.

Alya startles, fingertips grazing the paneling.

"A cat!" Marinette shouts, "I, ah… I snuck in a cat! And it made a _huge_ mess. The whole place is a disaster – papers everywhere, pee on the floor. I haven't had a chance to clean it yet–"

"There's a cat in your room?"

The minute the lie leaves her tongue, Marinette regrets it. Secrets are one thing, but deception is something entirely different. It's heavy and uncomfortable, a weight that she's struggled to avoid for some time now.

She hates lying, almost as much as she hates hiding things.

To label Chat Noir as a cat would be the equivalent of labeling Tikki a bug. It's a stretch, and even she knows it.

Since when did she start dancing along the lines of technicalities?

"Yes. And, honestly, you probably wouldn't want to see it. It's kind of feral and ugly, and I don't even know if it's had shots – _who knows_ what it might have."

Alya's expression shifts, her eyes widening.

"And you put it _in your room_? Does your mom know?"

Marinette glances at the staircase, inwardly praying her mother hasn't overheard this exchange.

"Well, no–"

Alya sighs, turning.

"We should at least take it to the vet. It might have a chip with an address on it."

Marinette's heart leaps to her throat, but before she's gotten hardly two more words out, Alya has pushed open the door and ducked into the room.

The young hero lets out a shout of warning, scrambling after her.

She's already mentally strung together a list of potential excuses – prepared herself for the outburst of surprise. But to her relief, there's no startled cry of discovery from the Ladyblog enthusiast.

It's nearly dark in the bedroom, save for a soft glow from the candle on her desk. A cozy pincushion sits inches away, where Tikki usually warms herself in her chosen's absence. Right now, the kwami is nowhere in sight. She must have heard their approach – or Chat's – and hidden herself.

Aside from Marinette's short, uneven breaths, the room is quiet.

"God, it's so cold up here. You should close your windows," Alya remarks.

Marinette glances at the open window, feeling the anxiety from before sink its teeth into her stomach. If she wasn't nervous before, she is now.

"Ah, yeah…"

Alya leans over her desk, blowing out the candle.

"Also? That's a fire hazard."

A thin wisp of smoke rises from the melted wax, and Marinette's eyes follow it.

"You know me…forgetful and clumsy."

She laughs, but it's breathy and unnatural, and Marinette knows Alya can sense it immediately. She can see it in the way her friend studies her, eyes lingering a second longer than friendly curiosity. Or maybe she's just imagining it.

She prays she's imagining it.

"Okay, well… where's this cat?"

Alya crosses to the chaise, sinking down on the cushions. She drops her bag on the floor, eyeing the corners of the room, and Marinette side-steps into her vision. She manages a tight smile.

"It must have escaped out the window."

A beat of silence.

"From this high up?"

Chat's cold, trembling form comes to mind – crouched on her sill, the smirk on his face illuminated by the lamplight from her desk.

Marinette swallows, "Yeah. Cats can be…stupid."

A cold breeze ghosts across her neck, and Marinette shivers, crossing toward it. As she draws the panes closed, her eyes subtly sweep over the street below.

Almost immediately she chastises herself for it. Chat Noir wouldn't roam Parisian streets in broad daylight – not now, when people making their daily commute could crowd him.

He's not _that_ stupid. Hopefully.

But, then again, he did dare to return to her room. Even after they both agreed he wouldn't.

"Your room doesn't look that messy," Alya says thoughtfully, "But, you don't look that surprised about it, either…"

Marinette's hand stills on the lock, her eyes caught on Alya's reflection in the glass.

"Honestly, I'm kind of amazed that you weren't worried about rushing home after school, considering the situation."

Alya stands, clasping her hands behind her back.

"It's almost like you didn't want me to know something…"

She takes a step around the chaise.

"Like you're keeping a secret."

Marinette twists around, her chest clenching painfully. She can feel the lie from before festering in her stomach, threatening to spill past her lips in a spout of word vomit.

She opens her mouth, but the explanations lodge in her throat.

"Maybe not a cat," Alya says suddenly, "But something else."

This was a mistake.

Letting Chat have access to her room – letting him come here, leaving the window unlocked even though they both _agreed_ that he wouldn't.

And then she had to lie. To _Alya_ of all people.

The girl had the intuition of a high-stakes reporter.

"Alya, I'm sor–"

The blogger lifts her hand.

"Honestly, Mari. You could have just told me if you wanted to sneak a boy in here."

Marinette stares.

"…wh–"

Alya gestures toward the desk, and Marinette's gaze follows.

Her heart stops momentarily at the sight of the phone. The case is obviously an expensive brand, matte black, without any defining features or charms. Simplistic.

But it's not hers.

"I'm not upset," Alya clarifies, "But admittedly, it does hurt a little bit that you felt you couldn't tell me."

Marinette flushes, glancing away.

They never carry their phones while transformed. Why did he have to do it today – of all days? And doesn't his suit have pockets? He could have stored it there, instead of leaving it in her room to be found.

"I'm sorry. I didn't…"

Her voice trails off, leaving a space in her mouth that she's not sure how to fill. Because she doesn't want to lie to Alya, not again.

"You didn't feel like you could trust me?"

"No!"

The hurt that briefly flashes across Alya's face seizes her heart.

"I mean, yes! I do trust you! It's not like that."

Alya's brows furrow, and there's a beat of silence. She glances toward the phone, and the expression that passes over her features is foreign to Marinette.

"Look, I get that you have your secrets – everyone does. And you have the right to them. Just because we're best friends doesn't mean you have to tell me everything."

She frowns.

"But I feel foolish, because I had kind of hoped you did." she admits quietly.

There's hurt there, and it doesn't escape Marinette. She knows she should say something, salvage this before it tumbles down a path of miscommunication and becomes a misunderstanding.

But what kind of explanation is there for this that won't be another lie?

"Alya-"

Alya shakes her head, letting out a short laugh.

"Look, it's fine. I'm not… I'm not upset, really."

She turns, throwing a lopsided smile toward her friend as she steps toward the trap door.

"I should probably go anyway. I'll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?"

She's already slipping down the steps, taking them two at a time, disappearing down the staircase before Marinette has had a chance to shout out more than a word after her.

Her chest is tight, and it's not hard to discern why.

She hates lies – but more than that, she hates the look on Alya's face, and knowing she was the cause of it. She hates feeling like despite the vulnerability and kinship between them, despite how deeply she treasures their friendship, there's a wall between them that she can't tear down. It's a barrier that Alya can't understand, and Marinette can't explain. And it's forming distance between them day by day – and she knows she's not the only one that feels it.

She expects Tikki to come out, to say something to comfort her. And it's a quiet moment of uncertainty before she realizes why she doesn't.

Marinette's eyes sweep over the room, listening.

"Chat?"

Her voice sounds soft, swallowed by the cool stillness.

Despite expecting him to be there, somewhere in the dark, her heart still leaps into her throat when she hears his voice.

"An ugly, feral cat?" he remarks lowly, "Truly, I'm offended."

Marinette twists around, her eyes following the line of shadows until she sees the outline of his hair – dark, wild strands haloed against her bedroom ceiling.

"Why are you on my bed?"

He seems to consider, and when he responds his tone lilts with amusement.

"It worked well enough the last time you wanted me out of sight."

She opens her mouth to chastise him, but her curiosity at his presence wins out. He isn't supposed to be here – let alone without any notice. He's never come here while she wasn't present, sending messages as though there was an urgent matter at hand.

As though he had something important to talk about.

For just a second, a sense of foreboding crests over her.

"Are you angry?" he asks quietly.

The question takes her by surprise, and it draws her from her thoughts.

"At you being here?"

"At me hiding in your room and almost getting caught by your friend."

Marinette grimaces, glancing down at the phone on her desk.

"Well, I'm not happy about it. It was sort of irresponsible on your part," she admits.

There's a pause between them, and it settles unexpectedly in a space that's usually filled with their banter.

She hears the ladder, and when she lifts her eyes, Chat has already stepped off. He turns, straightening, and she finds herself having to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

She wonders distantly when he grew taller than her. It makes her distinctly aware of the time that has passed since they first met – since they were only scared, uncertain children, given power that was beyond their capability.

It seems to have disappeared in an instant.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

She doesn't recognize what he's referring to at first. But her attention is drawn to his expression, to the empathy in his eyes, and it throws her thoughts back to Alya.

Her stomach flops, and there's a heat that pricks at her eyes. Marinette swallows it down, dropping her attention to the floor. There's a space between them where a stretch of wood paneling is all that separates them, and the familiarity makes her ache. She can't put her finger on it.

"Why don't you just tell her that I'm here?"

His voice is painfully quiet, and it wraps over her. Soft, understanding. So unlike the partner she's come to know. And yet, she's discovered only recently that there's an entire side to Chat that she has barely glimpsed.

"It's not my secret to share," she says honestly.

She expects his relief, his gratitude at her discretion. But she doesn't anticipate the silence. The sense from before settles heavily in her chest, and she can't place it until she meets his eyes.

There's a torn emotion in his gaze, and even when he looks away, it stays with her.

"Do you want me to tell her?" she murmurs, taken aback.

He startles, and the swift loss of the heavy atmosphere shakes her.

"What? No! No, that's…" he laughs, but the sound is almost disheartening, "No, that's not it."

She searches his expression, watching the way his brow slopes, guarded thoughts playing behind his mask. Her mind shifts back to the morning before, where they stood on a cold balcony, carefully shrouded behind identities that seemed too fragile to maintain.

Where she told him how vulnerable she wanted to be with him, and how much she trusted him.

His expression was different then, but the similarity weighs on her.

"The person I like," she ventures, "I told you before that he invited me somewhere."

Chat glances up, and she wets her lips.

"You've been really supportive in my feelings for him, and I thought that I might take the courage you've offered me."

She anticipates his teasing. His look of amusement, or a jest at her juvenile crush. She even expects his congratulations, friendly praise at her effort.

But what she doesn't expect is the way his tone shifts.

"Are you going to go with him?"

Marinette looks up, a wave of uncertainty flushing through her.

"I think I might."

She doesn't expect the disappointment that flashes across his expression, or the way he looks away when she meets his eyes.

She doesn't understand why her chest hurts when he responds. Why it feels like a heavy, unrelenting pressure is bearing down on her, as though she's forgotten something very, very important.

"I'm sure he'll like that," he says softly.

She doesn't expect the way it makes her feel. As though she's said something wrong, or made a critical mistake.

"Do you not want me to?" she asks.

Chat looks away quickly, but she doesn't miss the hesitation that flashes across his features. She can see his jaw shift, the way he bites down, as though restraining something on his mind.

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, maybe the fact that you didn't even deny it," she points out, suddenly flustered.

Her heart skip erratically, and she's keenly aware of the flush that's crawling up her neck. Whether it's from frustration, or something else, she can't tell.

What's worse, is she doesn't find herself upset at the possibility. The thought that Chat Noir might disapprove of her going out with someone else. That he may…

"Of course I want you to go," he says firmly.

His tone bites into her, and she starts.

"Then why are you acting like I just did something wrong?"

Chat grimaces, "I'm not-"

"What did I do?"

"Nothing!"

"Then why are you _talking_ like this?!"

"Because I want it to be _me_!" he nearly shouts.

Marinette's heart wrenches.

"…you-"

It was only a small, uncertain thought. She wasn't prepared for it to be given weight.

"I want it to be _me_. And I know it's already me, and it's selfish and wrong to want more because I can't. We can't. You told me that, and I remember. It should be enough that you want any of me at all, but-"

Marinette swallows thickly, her head clouding.

"Chat, what are you talking about-"

"It's not enough, and I hate it. I hate that I can't just be happy with a little piece of you – with a little piece of _us_. I used to think that as long as you could look at me at all, in any way, it'd be fine."

"Chat…" she breathes.

She can see all the guarded emotions, all the carefully confined thoughts from before, and they're scattering across the space between them.

"It's not enough," he whispers.

"Chat," she says quietly, "I don't understand what you're saying."

There's an unfocused sadness in his voice, and it far outweighs the frustration. It pours off him as he sinks onto her chaise, and Marinette watches, breathless.

Her pulse thrums, pounding in her ears at an uneven rhythm.

When the silence stretches, she reaches for him.

"Chat," she murmurs, "Please help me understand."

Her hands shake as she touches his head, fingers carding through soft, blonde hair.

He stiffens, and Marinette swallows thickly, afraid. Afraid that she's made another mistake she's not aware of, afraid that she may have hurt him.

He looks up, and his eyes are blown wide. She can see her shock, her confusion, reflected in them. He doesn't breathe, and neither does she.

Marinette feels clawed hands hesitantly draw up over her hips, and then her lower back. When he leans forward, forehead resting against her stomach, she doesn't stop him.

"I can't," he utters.

His voice is so soft, but the words feel unbearably heavy.

She stands very still, hands in his hair, her heart in her throat.

She doesn't pay attention to the fact that she's been up here for too long now since Alya's left, and her mother is probably going to come check on her.

She doesn't pay attention to the guilt that gnaws at her stomach – over her best friend, over the lies, over Chat and the thing between them that neither one can put a name to.

And it's not the distant, familiar voice that draws close.

It's the phone's buzzing that brings her back. It's a ringtone that's familiar, and it pulls that sense from before…

The deeply hinged foreboding, the sense of something important…

"–really sorry about earlier, and I promise I'm not just coming back because I forgot my bag–"

Chat startles against her, and Marinette's head whips up. She's wrenched from the train of thoughts, from the path her mind was traveling down, and she's filled with a sudden, unbridled panic.

Alya hovers over the stairs, trap door in hand. They both stare back, frozen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_*rises from the grave*_ **


	16. Chapter 16

There are few times Adrien has felt truly exposed.

Not since childhood, during early years where his tears would be hushed by his mother's arms, her soft voice as she whispered reassurances against his hair. Not since his earliest memories of a happy marriage, of his parents haloed in morning, kitchen light, Gabriel pressing kisses to his wife's neck as she half-heartedly protested.

And not long after, when they woke to find her gone, and Adrien broke in front of his father.

But there were no kisses, no reassurances or hugs. And he learned, from his father's stoic expression, from the silence and the locked doors, that feelings had found a special place in the Agreste household.

That identities had a place, and they were meant to be shrouded from the press and the acquaintances they welcomed into their home.

That his thoughts were to be kept in his head, and not in his mouth, even as the halls became hollow and the holidays barren.

He'd forgotten what it felt like to be vulnerable there, to allow himself to feel openly.

It was a dream that he grasped for when he found sleep, when he wasn't cradling his kwami for comfort. And he hadn't felt that reality until Ladybug filled the space next to him.

Despite the masks, despite her fears and his promises to keep their secrets. Despite the skeletons in their closets, he felt _exposed_ with her.

He felt like Adrien – the real Adrien, not the powdered face on the magazines, or the concept they sold like a name brand – was good enough. The Adrien that wasn't just Chat Noir, or just a model. The entire package.

Marinette cared for Adrien, and he knew that. Despite how openly he could be himself, how silly and wonderful their interactions were, he'd accepted that as Chat Noir, they were fated to be something secret.

Until the balcony.

_"Better than a pushy stray."_

Until that certainty he'd craved, that he'd ached for, rushed over him. And the possibility of what it meant – of the secrets they would no longer have to keep – became real. _Exposed._

_"It's not my secret to tell."_

Her words echoed hollowly in his head, dashing away all of the hope, all of the excitement. He couldn't confront her, even if he _knew_ in his gut who she was and what this meant.

Because he'd made a promise to Ladybug, to himself, that he wouldn't take that secret away from her.

And the knowledge he'd been so eager to uncover had become something else to stow away, another feeling he couldn't share. And this one was the worst of them all.

The thoughts race through his head as he sits on Marinette's bedroom chaise, elbow brushing her sleeve. Alya sits across from them in the desk chair, her legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap. There's a thick, uncomfortable silence that's settled between them since she entered the room, and it's not very hard to understand why.

"So, you're together?" she ventures.

Marinette stiffens next to him, and though it shouldn't come as a surprise to hear her response, it still drives the nail further in.

"No! No, I mean…"

He watches her from the corner of his eyes, watches the way she flushes, and the way she shifts next to him.

"We're good friends."

The sound Alya makes is caught between amusement and disbelief.

"Well, you must be _very_ good friends."

Marinette's gaze snaps to the other girl, and there's a look that passes between them that Chat can't decipher. Alya swallows, and her mirth disappears.

"How long has this been going on?"

Marinette shrugs, "Over a month?"

"Closer to two, actually," Chat offers quietly.

Both girls look at him, as though remembering his presence. Alya's expression changes, and he can see the confliction in her features. She's caught between being a concerned best friend, someone that is invested in Marinette's well-being, and an avid, passionate reporter that would do anything to get her hands on a scoop bigger than Paris has seen since the two heroes first appeared.

He knows that expression very well, because only a few moments before he'd been torn between being a good friend to Ladybug, and being a love-sick boy he couldn't afford to indulge.

Alya leans forward, cupping a hand over her mouth as she drops her voice to a whisper.

"Is he the _other_ guy?"

He doesn't miss the way Marinette glances at him, or the flustered way she throws her attention back to Alya.

"Do we really have to talk about that _now_?"

"Then what else are we supposed to talk about?" The blogger blurts, "The fact that you're obviously dating one of the world's biggest celebrities?"

Marinette flinches, "I'm not–"

"Or how you have been _lying_ to me?"

Marinette stays quiet, and Alya plows on.

"I mean, I've been thinking there was something going on. Because how else would you be able to land an interview for me with _Ladybug_? And why else would you always be late for school, or find yourself in the middle of battles right as they were starting, or always manage to get hurt-"

"I'm sorry!" Marinette blurts loudly.

Alya's face is tinged pink, and both girls stare back at one another. There's a tension that has weaved its way through the room, and it pulls tightly between them now like a thin string.

"I'm sorry," Marinette says breathlessly, "I was afraid, okay? I was afraid of _this_. I was afraid if I told you, if you knew about-"

She pauses, glancing at Chat, and though she thinks he doesn't know, the reality of the words she almost shared fills him.

_About me being Ladybug._

"If you knew about Chat," she breathes, "I was afraid you'd turn it into this huge ordeal. The Ladyblog, the followers and the fame – it's all too important to you. And I didn't want to make you choose between our friendship and something you're passionate about."

He expects Alya to be angry. He expects the hurt that flashes across her face, but he's surprised by the silence that follows. He doesn't expect the fierce, remorseful tone of her voice when she speaks.

"Marinette, _you_ are important to me."

She wrings her hands, and something cuts across Marinette's expression.

"I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't confide in me. No matter what the Ladyblog means to me, or what comes after school or these years we have together – none of it matters more than _us_. You and I, our friendship, is more important than any of it."

There's a softness behind Alya's spectacles that strikes him. It reminds him of Nino, of the genuine friendship that he'd come to rely on in the last year. And it reminds him of how much he'd underestimated those friendships in the time he'd been caught up in secrets.

Marinette sucks in a breath, "I don't want you to resent me."

Alya shakes her head in bewilderment, and a soft smile plays on her lips.

"How could I ever?"

Their gazes hold, unsteady but open – searching. Marinette lets out a breath Chat hadn't realized she'd been holding and she drops her head.

"I hate lies."

It's a statement that shouldn't hold more value than what a friend would defer, but it weighs on Chat when he hears it in his partner's voice. His stomach flips over.

"So do I," Alya says honestly, "Which is why I won't press you for any more answers."

Marinette straightens, her brows lifting into her hairline.

"Look, I know this involves literally one of the biggest, trending topics in the world."

Alya glances at Chat Noir pointedly.

"But it also involves my best friend, and you're obviously personally tied to…" she gestures widely, "Whatever is going on here. And I respect your right to privacy."

He can see the way Marinette's posture changes – the way her eyes water before she closes the space between herself and Alya. She throws her arms around the other girl's neck, drawing her into a fierce hug.

They embrace for several, long seconds. Marinette whispers apologies and Alya pats her back, answering with soft reassurances. It's tender and personal, the moment they share, and Adrien suddenly feels very self-conscious of his presence here.

He considers stepping out, shooting them a punctuated joke and disappearing out the window. Playing the intimacy and severity of the situation off with humor – as per the usual Chat Noir way.

He hadn't anticipated his visit to unfold this way.

He came here with his heart full of expectancy, with the intention of pouring his feelings out to her. He envisioned the astonishment and delight on Marinette's face, the way she might say his name – _Adrien_ – in that soft, adoring way. He'd imagined sweeping her up, showering her lovely face with indulgent kisses.

He'd trekked every spiraling, imaginative fantasy his brain could feed him.

But there was a smaller, darker voice that pressed scenarios into his thoughts. He'd ignored it. The possibility of Marinette being disgusted or angered – _disappointed_.

_Ladybug isn't like that_ , he told himself.

But until only a few days ago, he hadn't even known who Ladybug was, let alone what she was really like. He'd hoped, and he'd dreamed of it, but he'd never known for sure.

He stares at the window, feeling his lungs tighten.

"Chat."

He looks up, ignoring the way his chest aches when he meets her eyes. Remembering the confusion in them from before.

_I'm the only one that knows._

"Chat Noir," Marinette says, this time more firmly.

He doesn't miss the way she adjusts the familiarity in her voice. To sway Alya's opinion of their relationship, to dissuade the assumption of any romance between them.

"We'll have to save what we were talking about for later. I need to spend time with Alya."

She's standing a breath away from him, fingers working over the seam on her pant leg. He can sense the mixed emotions there – it's impossible not to. He's grown familiar with the way she touches things when she's anxious, fidgeting and worrying at them.

His eyes flick behind her, to Alya's expression. She's eyeing him carefully, and it unnerves him briefly.

He's become too comfortable with Marinette, with the way she treats him. Between her and Ladybug–

No, just her.

Between his time with her in her home, and their partnership, he's nearly forgotten the crazed, awestruck eyes that people usually give him. It occurs to him now, as Alya stares at him, that he's a celebrity to her – and notably, she's done a very good job restraining her ogling.

"Right," he says, standing.

He knows what Marinette expects of him. He can see it in the way she cradles her arms, assuming a polite smile. She wants him to pretend at friendliness.

Alya said she wouldn't press for more information, but she isn't stupid. He knows this will plague her mind – even if she's not actively investigating it, her thoughts will be on nothing else. And if he plays along, if he persuades her into believing in an innocent friendship between himself and Marinette, he knows it'll only raise more questions.

Questions that will pave a way to a truth they've both worked too hard to suppress.

Questions that Marinette isn't ready to give answers to – not right now, not yet.

_If they're only friends, why is she spending so much time with Chat Noir?_

He can see the question in her eyes, and he feels the solution rising to his mind before he's thought it through.

Chat reaches forward, catching Marinette's elbow. She glances up, and he glimpses the surprise flash across her features as he tugs her toward him.

He ducks forward, lips grazing the line of her jaw. Dark hair tickles his nose as he presses a kiss to the curve of her cheek, and he lets himself linger a second longer than necessary – for effect, he reasons.

His attention falters, eyes settling on the angry pink that splotches across her cheek, feeling her pained intake of breath as he pulls away. His heart lurches momentarily, and he's reminded of Ladybug's laughing eyes, and his clawed hands trembling as he bandaged it.

"Text me when you get a chance," he murmurs.

Loud enough for Alya to hear. Loud enough for there to be no question now.

Marinette's face warms, and he can see the flush crawl up her neck, replacing the shock. If he hadn't been in line to receive an angry lecture before, he certainly is now.

He recovers it quickly, shooting Alya a camera-worthy grin, fully expectant of the indignation that flits across Marinette's expression as he steps toward the window. He cuts a salute across his brow, darting out into the cresting evening before either gawking, disbelieving girl can say a word.

____________________________________________________________

Adrien doesn't like to be alone with his thoughts. Months of filling his schedule with appointments, fittings, schoolwork, and lessons have taught him the value of diversion.

He's chased his thoughts away over piano keys and fencing classes, but tonight there is nothing to greet him save for the confines of his bedroom. And the concept of lying in bed, smelling Plagg's putrid cheese breath as he prays for sleep doesn't sound appealing.

The sun has dipped past the horizon, and it's been several hours since he's lost track of his feet. He can never truly get lost in Paris – not when he's traced every corner, every rooftop in his late night excursions. Its winding streets are tattooed in his mind, lines and curves inked into his memory.

At first it was with the intention of knowing his way through the city during akuma attacks. When there's immediate danger, there's no time for getting misplaced and uncertain. But very quickly it became a game he played when the reality waiting at home was not a familiarity he wanted to confront. The architecture he'd studied under Nathalie's peering gaze became real and tangible – something beyond the lines of the page, something he could touch and see and feel.

Adrien stoops against one of the bricked, aged buildings. Dim, watery light pools over the street, illuminating the toes of his shoes. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, sucking in a chilling breath and watching the air as it steams past his lips.

Curling up, disappearing…

He doesn't like the quiet on these nights, the way his mind finds new doubts and insecurities for him to analyze and mull over. But he didn't want to be Chat Noir – possibly for the first time in a long time.

He used to believe that his problems existed solely in Adrien Agreste's life. They could be fit into a box, stowed away and carefully covered when he wanted to escape their weight. As long as he wasn't Adrien, as long as he pretended and played and distanced himself from that identity, then they did not exist.

If he wasn't Adrien – if he was Chat Noir – they wouldn't touch him.

It was a childish notion, but there's a part of him that wishes he could have remained in that simplicity.

Adrien stares at his shoes, wondering at the unblemished, white laces. Slightly wet from the snow, but crisp – new. He can't remember the last time he wore something long enough for it to show age. Long enough for it to acquire flaws.

He swallows, ignoring the way his stomach sinks.

Adrien's phone hums against his leg, buzzing against his fingertips. He fishes it out, and the screen glows, illuminating a class picture punctuated by a familiar name.

His chest squeezes.

_Marinette._

She's never called him before, and the realization of it wrenches his heart into an uneven rhythm. He didn't expect her to contact him so soon – not after what transpired earlier. He stares at the screen for a solid beat, panic leaping into his throat as he strings together what he could possibly say.

His hand trembles as he slides his thumb across the screen.

"Hello?"

He can hear his voice distantly, and it sounds rehearsed. Like someone that answers phone calls from modeling agencies and sponsors. Not like a boy with a closed throat and anxiety pounding in his ears.

She's quiet for a moment, and he can hear her intake of breath – as though she's begun to answer, only to catch herself. He senses her stumble over the hesitance, blurting out a greeting.

"Ah- sorry! I just, uhm, you sounded like someone else for a second there–"

Adrien's stomach dips.

"–anyway, I meant to text you, but I guess I wasn't thinking and I hit the call button? And I didn't realize it until it had started ringing and by then you had already picked it up, and I guess I thought if I just hung up it would be rude…"

He coughs a laugh, but it's hoarse. It rattles his chest, filling his lungs with the cold, evening air. He feels his anxiety dissipate, lost in Marinette's nervous, uncertain voice.

"I didn't want to just hang up! It would be rude," she repeats, "So now that I've explained myself I'll just–"

"Hang up?" he offers.

She pauses audibly. The sound she makes is enough to conjure a vivid image of her flustered face, and an amused smile tugs on his lips.

He imagines her sitting in her room, clutching her phone to her cheek. Her legs pulled up to her chin, eyes on the window…

"You know," he says quietly, "You could stay on the phone."

Adrien's voice is low – allusive. It doesn't betray the jackhammer rhythm of his pulse, or the way his abdomen flutters when he hears her soft breathing in his ear. As though she's right there, as they had been so many nights before. Shoulder to shoulder, wandering the dark, lonely streets.

He remembers the warmth in her cheeks, the snow in her hair, and for a moment he forgets that he's alone.

"Alya thinks we're dating," she murmurs.

Those words shouldn't send a thrill through him, but they do.

"I figured," he admits.

Marinette sighs, "So, you _did_ do it on purpose."

"If I hadn't, she would have come to other conclusions."

There's a beat of silence, and a slow trickle of regret slips into his thoughts.

"Like what?" she says.

Adrien leans his head back, eyes following the line of dark, remorseful clouds that drift overhead. He adjusts his grip on his phone.

_I'm the only one that knows._

"Like maybe the reason you spend so much time with Chat Noir is because he's someone you know."

He feels her shift, feels the disbelieving breath she releases. More than he hears it – he feels it. It washes over him, and he's caught in that intake of breath on the other end of the line. He imagines her fingers, moving to the seam on her pant leg, worrying it.

"That's crazy," she says softly.

_Is it?_

"Yeah."

He breathes out the word, pretending it doesn't leave a fierce ache in his chest as he says it.

The road stretches out on either side, but Adrien is in a place somewhere in between. Listening to her breathing, allowing himself to indulge in the way she lingers. The comfort in the shared quiet is a luxury, and he savors it.

He imagines for a moment the nights they spent together, overlooking the expanse of the city lights. Sitting against one another, talking about things they wouldn't dare mention outside the veil of facades. Her head slowly dipping lower as the hours dragged on, until she was cradled against his side, her words becoming slurred.

Blue eyes and pigtails.

It's those warm, fleeting moments that Adrien fell in love with. The moments where he would see her – past the suit and the bravado. The moments where she was just a girl, and he was just a boy, and their identities were meaningless.

It's odd, the brief time he's known her real face, and it's already become so natural to think of them as the same person. Two halves of the same whole.

It was painfully foolish that he'd managed to be blind to it this entire time.

"I know I said we would talk," Marinette says quietly, "About what happened before."

His mind jumps back to their exchange in her room – his outburst.

"Of course," he says evenly.

She takes in a long breath, "But I was hoping we could talk about that in person."

Adrien attempts to keep his tone neutral.

"Are you wanting me…to come over again?"

She answers hastily.

"No! No, no… I mean, not now. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant–"

He bites down on a smile, "There's no need to get flustered."

"I'm not," she says firmly.

Adrien leans against the bricks, his smile dimpling.

"My mistake – you only get flustered for your prince."

"Right."

There's a solid beat before he hears her suck in a regretful breath, fumbling to collect her thoughts.

"No, I mean–"

A chuckle bubbles past Adrien's lips. He feels his cheeks warming, despite the blustering wind. He's forgotten momentarily about Plagg, nestled in his breast pocket, fast asleep.

Marinette huffs, "I _meant_ that I would rather not talk about things like that over the phone."

He tries not to sound too cheeky, even though her rattled tone goads him on.

"So, why are you calling me then?"

"I didn't mean to call you," she corrects, "But that's beside the point."

"Then what's the point?"

Marinette pauses, and he can vaguely hear her shifting.

"Do you remember the spot where we hid outside La Pagode?"

Adrien involuntarily lets amusement creep into his voice.

"How could I forget?"

If she notices, she disregards it entirely.

"I left something there for you."

He straightens, glancing down the street. As though La Pagode were within sight, and he could glimpse it.

They were supposed to meet there only days before, as per her request. But they didn't.

At the time he'd been confused, as to why Marinette would just leave a note on her window and then never address it again. And the way Ladybug had acted that night, panicked and uncertain, weaves together all the missing pieces that had alluded him.

He understands now, why she'd acted the way she had.

Why there had only been a note, and no texts.

"Consider it a late Christmas gift," she utters.

It brings him back to the present, and he's drawn to her voice in his ear. She sounds unnerved, embarrassed even. Several seconds pass, a quiet uncertainty sidling between them. It flutters low in his stomach, and he attempts at humor.

"You've caught me off-guard, princess. I don't have anything in return."

"I'll settle for you dropping the nickname," she says airily.

Adrien grins, "But I've grown so fond of it."

"That makes one of us."

Even as she says it, he knows it's half-hearted; he can hear the grudging smile in her voice.

"Also, if you ever try to kiss me in front of Alya again, I'll knock you out."

He shifts the phone to his other ear, and the words are already dancing off his tongue, escaping his head before he can reel them back in.

"And when Alya's not around?"

They sound far silkier, far more suggestive than he ever would have intended them to – very _Chat Noir_. But it's too late to allow himself the courtesy of embarrassment, and the moment they've settled between them, he finds himself fervently wishing he could see their effect on her.

When she responds her voice is breathy, and it claws at his composure.

"Then you'll have to be a gentleman."

He imagines her, sitting in her room, cotton pajamas draped over inches of warm skin. A flustered, lovely blush blooming in her face. Her fierce, decisive expression giving way and shifting to something more tentative – inviting.

_What would Chat Noir do?_

"I have very good manners," he says lowly, "I know how to ask first."

He hears her draw in a breath, and it catches. Adrien's mouth goes dry. He struggles to force words past his throat.

"Like please," he whispers, "And thank you."

Another breath.

"You only say 'thank you' if you get something," she undertones.

"I only say please if I want it."

Marinette is quiet, and for several, agonizing seconds he thinks she may have hung up. But the screen glows when he turns to look, and the numbers tick by, painfully slow in comparison to his pulse.

And then she answers, and there's something palpably vulnerable in her voice.

"Stay warm, Chat."

It's tremulous and uneven, and it stays with him, long after the line has cut off. Even a full minute later, when he's tucked his phone away, hands trembling. His heart thrums against his ribs, pounding an unsteady bassline in his temple.

He turns, grabbing onto the wall behind him and resting his forehead against the cold masonry.

And he wonders at how he's gotten to this point. Originally it was just a game between two adolescents, between two friends – to elicit reactions out of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. And yet, somehow, he's found his own heart at the end of her marionette strings.

_What would Chat Noir do?_

_Make a fool out of himself._

________________________________________________________

La Pagode looks exactly as they left it.

It doesn't show the steps they traced over the cobblestones, or the fearful, thrilled breaths they shared shrouded in its withered greenery. But it speaks volumes of age – of years worn under Parisian footfalls and churning seasons.

He trails a path through the looming trees, ducking under the dimming lights near the entrance. The owner has taken precaution against meddling children, and Adrien can see a sign hung up on the door that warns against trespassers.

It isn't hard to find the place they had been before.

He's envisioned it many times since, playing over the memory in unbearable detail, trying to conjure the scents and feelings as though he were stepping back into it. It's silly, really, how enraptured he's become with the stolen moments he's spent with Marinette.

Even more ridiculous, the knowledge of who she is, and what they've shared together, and how strongly it's affected his feelings toward her.

There's a small package, brown paper and scarlet thread, propped against the wall in the spot where they'd sat. Adrien sinks onto the grass, leaning against the bricks as he takes it into his hands gingerly.

He fingers the thread, eyes roaming over the taped paper, the curly handwriting that marks his name.

Not _his_ name, of course. But the other one.

The one she knows him by.

_**– Chat Noir** _

He peels it open carefully, as though taking care in the wrapping will preserve her effort, and the thought she put toward him by leaving this.

But the moment he's opened it, and the soft, wooly material of the cowl unfolds in his hands, Adrien forgets the need for caution. He forgets that he's alone in the bushes outside of an old building, and there is an empty room waiting for him in an empty house.

He forgets that to Marinette, there are two boys, and she's just shared something she was making for the boy she cares for, with the one she's pushed away.

Adrien presses his face into the gift, heart swelling. The scent of her bedroom, of the warm space above the bakery, clings to it.

_"Is it for your prince?"_

_"It gets cold outside," she blunders, "And I thought he might, ah- appreciate…the gesture?"_

Adrien's eyes prick with heat, but it's not unpleasant. Not this time.

_"I'm sure he would."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize my updates are incredibly inconsistent, but despite that the response this fic has received has been steady, vigilant, and enthusiastic. Each comment and kudos has motivated me to push through my lack of willpower and write. And I thank you all for that.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this fic, and thank you for your feedback - it means the world!
> 
> \- Avelyst


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot to cleanse the palette and a sweet taste of dessert at the end for all you patient sinners.
> 
> But no - seriously. There is some mild sin at the end, so please be advised. :)

Marinette had imagined, many times, what fulfillment in her life would feel like.

She'd had a taste of it, when her bowler hat design had been chosen for Adrien's modeling shoot and Chloe's pathetic attempt at stealing her ideas had been shot down. And then not long after, when Jagged Stone – one of her _idols_ – had asked her to design an album cover for him.

The concept that her luck might have changed for the better – that something she was passionate about could bring her a real, tangible future – was exhilarating.

But she hadn't dared to think, not for even a moment, that she would be attending a fashion show that she'd only glimpsed through online photos and snippets in big name magazines. Let alone a Gabriel Agreste original collection. At least, not for many, many years to come.

"If you keep ogling the people sitting around us," Alya says quietly, "Then you'll miss the entire show."

Marinette drags her gaze from the row of seats across the stage.

There are countless faces here – many notably famous ones. She's already recognized several celebrities and brand designers, flanked by huge names in the fashion industry. To say that she feels overwhelmed would be a generous understatement.

"I'm surprised _you_ are so calm." Marinette says.

Alya shrugs nonchalantly, her expression carefully schooled into that of an experienced reporter's practiced disinterest.

Her voluptuous curls have been pulled back, the signature spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose. Long, dark lashes frame her hazel irises. It's an unusual thing – to see her dolled up – but it suits her.

"Don't let her fool you," Nino cuts in, "She's been eyeing the cameras like a love-sick little girl."

Marinette ducks her head, concealing a smile.

"I have _not_." Alya bristles.

"Right. The googly eyes you were giving that reporter earlier was because you were enamored with her heart-breaking good looks – not the $5,000 camera she was holding."

"Maybe it was both," Alya says brazenly.

Nino stares.

"And it was $6,000," she points out, "But it's cute that you tried."

Marinette's gaze slants toward the boy, noting the disgruntled pout on his mouth.

She's glad she came with Nino and Alya, despite being sandwiched between them. She had suggested when they'd first arrived that Alya switch her seats, but her friend had shot her down abruptly, red-faced and resolute.

_"This isn't about me,"_ Alya had firmly told her.

As though that was explanation enough for her defiant reaction to any implications toward a romantic interest in Nino.

She'd been more allusive than usual toward Adrien's best friend in the last week, since they'd decided to attend the show. Since Marinette had mentioned the possibility of something more than friendship between the two. It wasn't the first time the topic had come into conversation – not since the incident at the zoo nearly two years before.

It was as though Alya had become more conscious of their interactions, and Marinette hadn't missed it.

The lights over the stage flash once – a warning that the show will begin shortly.

"Have you seen Adrien?" Alya asks innocently, steering the topic to something more amiable.

Nino leans back in his seat, one leg propped over his knee.

"He texted me a few minutes ago; he's backstage getting ready."

Alya purses her lips, a plump, wine-red bow set against her warm complexion. Marinette told her earlier that paired with her beauty mark, the effect is incredibly sophisticated. Alya liked that.

"It's too bad that he can't come say hi. I wish we could go backstage and wish him good luck."

"Yeah, but his dad is really strict about these things. I'm honestly surprised he allowed him to invite us." Nino says.

Truthfully, so was Marinette. More so, she was startled by the seating they'd been given – the unbelievable amenities that had been included.

Front row seats at a fashion show of this caliber were reserved for huge figures in society, or high-paying sponsors. They were _not_ meant for teenaged school friends.

"It was very kind of him," Marinette comments softly.

The two on either side of her follow with noises of quiet assent.

"I'm glad one of us knew how to dress for this," Alya states, "Or else I probably would have showed-up _very_ underdressed."

Marinette shares a smile with her, but her chest squeezes.

She doesn't mention how only a few days before, she'd been at an absolute loss for what to wear, tearing through her closet like a madwoman. She had plenty of designs in her sketchbook, certainly. But she didn't have the money for the materials, or the time to put together something decent enough for an event like this.

She hadn't dared to mention it to her parents, in fear they'd pull together money they didn't have to fund it. They were too loving, too mindful of her happiness to say no – and she couldn't bring herself to put them in that position.

She was acquiescent to wear something in her closet, a dress from an old dance that was adequately pretty, if not simple.

That is, until she'd found the box on her chaise the night before the show.

**_Something befitting a princess._ **

**_– C.N._ **

The note was clipped to parchment paper, wrapped carefully around the soft, blushing fabric.

She didn't know how he'd done it – how he'd managed to get his hands on something so beautiful and _obviously_ expensive. But she was resigned not to question it, lest she bring the rest of Chat's resources and the personal aspects of his life into her mind.

She did, however, inform him firmly that she would not be keeping it. He'd responded immediately.

**_[ Consider it a late Christmas present. ]_ **

It struck her at the time, and her mind went back to a similar text she had sent him not too long before. Marinette was hard-pressed to formulate a reply. At the risk of him recanting the gift she'd stowed for him outside La Pagode, she ultimately consented.

"You look amazing, though."

It's the third time Alya has said it since they've arrived, and Marinette still feels her fingers moving to the material bunched between her thighs, smoothing her hands over it nervously.

" _Alya_."

Her friend's eyes move to Nino mindfully, noting his diverted attention before she answers.

"He's going to have a heart attack," Alya whispers, her smile knowing.

If Marinette wasn't wearing makeup, she would have dragged her hands across her face in embarrassment.

"At least if he doesn't," her friend continues absently, "We both know who would."

A flash of Chat's devilish smile stows across her thoughts, and she levels Alya with a pleading, disbelieving stare, her eyes wide and mouth pressed into a thin line.

This isn't the first time the blogger has brought up her recent discovery in the past week. But it's the first time she's dared to mention it in a public setting, out-loud.

"Oh, look! The lights are dimming." Alya says pleasantly, pointing past Marinette's lucid gaze to the stage.

It's twenty minutes past the time the show was scheduled to start. It's not entirely surprising, considering that these things do tend to run a little late, due to last minute complications and long-running interviews.

Not that Marinette would know personally, but she's spent enough time pouring over the materials and recollections of these events to have a brief knowledge of it.

With the budget Gabriel Agreste has for the occasion, Marinette has no doubt they can afford it. It's not as though the reporters would consider leaving, not when they cling to every bit of news involving the Agreste name like a colony of ants drawn to sweets.

The house falls quiet as the room transitions to the bright flare of stage lights, and Marinette is whisked into the hum of music as the first camera flashes.

She forgets that she's flanked by two of her best friends, that for the past half hour her hands have been sweating and a sense of anxiety and _longing_ has been aching in her chest. She forgets that her feet ache from her heels, that the anticipation has been enough to make her physically ill. She's hardly aware of how hot the stage lights are, or how hard her heart has been pounding up to this point. All of it – all of her nerves and indecision – is swept into the glow of the stage, the long legs and swirling fabrics draped over the models as they begin to cross the catwalk.

It's enchanting, the flowing fabrics, the shimmering, vibrant colors and textures. She's hardly aware of the audience or the shutter of the cameras. It fades into a low buzz as each perfectly chiseled figure crosses in front of her, one mesmerizing design after another moving languidly past her field of vision.

It's too lovely – like a dream she's had since she was young. She imagined it perfectly, she had thought, down to the last sequin. But she'd never imagined herself, sitting right here, and feeling as though her heart might burst with the reality of it.

She's so caught up in her thoughts, she doesn't recognize him when he steps out across the stage – not at first.

Marinette knew Adrien was a model, _knew_ this was as much a part of him as the time he spent at school, perfect posture and friendly smiles. But all the photoshoots she'd managed to glimpse – innocent, neutral prints shot in a park setting, snapped and staged for magazine covers and billboards – was nothing compared to this.

Through open-mouthed bemusement, and the several long, agonizing seconds she spends wide-eyed and breathless, there's only a singular, quiet thought that manages to surface past her clouded brain.

_Oh._

There's a languid grace in his posture, as though each movement is calculated and placed with forethought as he strides over the crystalline surface. It's almost – but not quite enough – to deter from the grass green eyes highlighted in smoky, cat-like liner. The cut of dark leather clinging to his figure hardly does any favor for the star-eyed onlookers in the audience, and Marinette finds herself painfully enamored, just like the rest of them.

Up until this point, her attention had been stolen by the clothes, the breath-taking patterns and seams that she determined to commit to memory for later musings once she was alone with her sketchbook.

But this is the first time in the last fifteen minutes where Marinette can't focus on what is being worn, and she can't imagine regretting it.

"Damn."

She's not even sure which of her friends uttered it, but she finds herself in wholehearted agreement.

The camera lights shutter in rattling succession, and her heart follows them, skipping erratically as Adrien whirls on his heel, shifting his weight to come to a sharp standstill. Her breath is caught in the blinding stage lights, the tenacious halo of pinprick flashes punctuating his lissome figure.

He's a cut of sophistication and something _dark_ and _tantalizing_ , sharp lines and crisp, black gloves. It's different – not the Adrien that she's come to know, and she's rapt, arrested by a familiarity she can't pinpoint. It drags through her head, bleeding between the lines like ink on parchment, and she can't grasp onto it.

And then there's a split moment, where his head tilts, eyes slanting over her row. It's a brief, unbearable beat where she almost allows herself to believe that his gaze lingers, searching. And the most jarring realization of it, is when for a thought-clouded second, she imagines that it's not his.

But then it's gone, and he's turning, shifting back into a step that's timed with elegance and poise. She drags in a breath, willing her thoughts to form some symbolism of sensibility.

"Holy _shit_ ," Alya hisses, "Was that really Adrien?"

Marinette swallows thickly, forcing a smile. Because, truthfully, she's asking herself the same thing.

__________________________________________________________

He comes out onto the stage several more times, always a different ensemble, but with the same practiced ease. And each time Marinette loses sense of the show's purpose, of the entire reason she agreed to come, and the gawking eyes of the people surrounding her.

She promises herself that it's only because she's admired him for so long – that he's beautiful and anyone would be _mad_ to not be completely captivated. Even Nino stares, wide-eyed and slack-jawed as he regards his best friend as a stranger.

She's caught up in distraction, and it's probably the most prominent reason behind why she doesn't notice the change in the atmosphere.

The silhouette that crests over the stage, shouldering past the curtains, completely escapes her.

Adrien pauses at the edge of the stage, shrugging off his jacket as he shoots the cameras a heart-wrenching, lopsided smile. He's only just spun around, jacket tossed stylishly over his shoulder, when he freezes, the smile faltering.

In unison, hundreds of eyes turn to the shadow ghosting behind him. Marinette's stomach drops, her heart stuttering into a thunderous rhythm.

And in that lingering second, there's no question in her mind who, or _what_ it is. Her years spent as Paris' hero, her instincts, scream at her.

_Akuma._

From the ghoulish, evocative outline of its posture, punctuated by flamboyant, vibrant makeup chalked over its face, to the exaggerated cut of its attire. There's a shadow of glistening, striking violet circling the eyes – bloodshot and haunting irises that seem to widen with each passing second.

Its glittering smile stretches, revealing rows of menacing, perfect teeth.

"Oh, have I interrupted something?" it muses.

A painfully thin silence draws over the room, pulled taut with tension. The creature lifts a pale hand to its cheek, a flash of amusement contorting its garish features.

"So quiet, for a lot that can't seem to keep their opinions to themselves. How unusual."

The akuma takes a stride forward on long, thin legs, crossing the length of the catwalk. Marinette's throat constricts as her gaze darts to Adrien. He's become very still, his knuckles paling as his grip tightens on his jacket.

His adam's apple bobs as the creature nears him, and she can see him stiffen visibly.

"My, what a pretty thing," the akuma remarks, lifting a slender finger to his face.

It drags the digit across his jawline, tracing down to his chin before tapping the end of his nose.

"And so young, too. A shame, truly. They always ruin them so early."

Marinette's eyes flick to the audience, to the rows lined across the stage and the reporters perched toward the back. Dozens of faces have paled, each expression an identical mask of fear and uncertainty.

Paris has become accustomed enough to akuma attacks to know that they're volatile and abrupt, with fiends that vary from large to small, armed with abilities that are explosive and unpredictable at best. Ladybug and Chat Noir have warned in countless interviews that the best course of action – if one were to find themselves in the middle of one – is to remain calm and level-headed.

Of course, that's easy enough to say, and much harder to adhere to.

She has no doubt that at any moment the paralyzed trepidation could shift to panic.

"No pictures?" the creature chortles, "No applause? Why, this is certainly no red carpet event."

"You are not welcome here."

A man wearing an expensive-looking suit in a questionable shade of blue rises from his seat, two rows back from the stage. There's a flower pinched in his lapel, and he looks not much older than Marinette's father. There's a thin sheen of sweat that's broken out across his forehead, and Marinette squeezes the seat of her chair, leaning forward.

_"Don't ever approach an akuma or provoke them. Your safety – and the well-being of those around you – is the topmost priority."_

Clearly he had not watched the Ladybug and Chat Noir special – _Safety: A Guide on How to be Well-Prepared in an Akuma Attack._

The akuma regards him with glimmering eyes, and Marinette's mouth grows dry at the predatory glint in them.

"For a man with a taste for fashion, an attempt at bravery isn't very becoming of you, sir."

The akuma thrusts its hand toward the man, and a beam of illumination envelops his seat, drawing every fearful eye in the room to the spectacle. Marinette begins to stand, and she feels a hand catch her wrist, squeezing it tightly.

"What are you doing?" Alya frowns, her voice dropping into a thin, fierce whisper.

Marinette swallows, her throat snagging on uncertainty.

"I– "

"Don't worry" Alya says lowly, "Ladybug and Chat Noir will come; we just have to remain calm."

Of course Alya was the one that had watched the videos.

"Adrien–"

"–will be fine," her friend supplies, "If we don't do anything stupid to endanger him."

Alya's hand falls, and she lifts her phone slowly from her lap. Marinette sinks into her chair just in time to see the blogger tap 'record' on the camera mode.

The young hero's fingers work at the clasp on her clutch, wedged between her chair and her foot. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she feels for Tikki.

"What do you want?"

The building is eerily silent, pulled tense with a sense of foreboding that cuts through Marinette's resolve. His voice is clear and resolute – absent of the nerves that tingle through every line of her body. Her gaze snaps to Adrien's face, to the hardened line of his throat, the muscles in his shoulders coiling visibly under the thin material of his posh clothing. His chin is lifted as he stares down the akuma.

The akuma tips its head, pale lips thinning into a hard line as its eyes return to Adrien.

"Why, that's what they all ask, isn't it?" it barks, its voice manic, "Wealth? Looks? Revenge? Oh, no. Too easy to achieve!"

It briefly casts its wild gaze back on the man in the audience, the terrified expression etched across his aging features.

"No, no, no – too easy. Too many times I yielded the limelight, too many times I starved myself – and for _nothing_. Oh, no. Not anymore!"

It grimaces, shaking its head as though ridding an irritant.

"Ah- yes, the miraculous. Of course, that, too."

The creature drags its attention back to Adrien, baring its flawless, pearly teeth.

"I will expose the nasty little flaws that all of your _perfect_ little puppets here have – including yours, pretty, little thing."

Adrien lets out a choked noise as a pale, veiny hand flies out, clenching around his throat. Marinette releases a strangled cry, shooting up from her chair.

"But first," the akuma rasps, "Let's invite some special guests to this little show."

________________________________________________________________

Marinette has had her fair share of panic-induced mayhem in her time as France's self-proclaimed hero.

She's experienced mass hysteria on numerous occasions – the adrenaline-drenched sweat of hundreds of bodies pressing in on her, the stampede of thunderous feet slapping against concrete as they swarmed past her. It's impossible to avoid in her line of work.

But each and every time, it's still jarring.

Nino is wrenched from his seat next to her as people begin to throw themselves over the chairs. Marinette grasps for him futilely, one hand clasping her clutch to her chest as someone shoves past her. She topples face-first toward the stage, barely managing to break her fall with her free arm. Pain lances through her elbow, and she cringes, biting down on the sting as screaming begins to bounce off the building's walls.

She vaguely hears Alya's voice shouting for her.

Tikki's warmth presses against her throat, the clutch gaping open against her collarbone. It's a miracle she can't crush her kwami.

"Marinette."

Somehow she hears her.

Despite the high-pitched shrills that fill her ears, the sounds of people crying out and choking on their terror as they struggle through the thick crowds. Despite the ringing in her temple, she hears her.

"Marinette, we have to transform."

"Adrien– " she gasps.

"Ladybug can save him," Tikki says firmly.

Marinette lifts her head with difficulty, straining to peer past the chairs from her position on the floor. She spots Alya's phone, discarded across the tile and cracked down the screen. But among the sea of petrified faces, neither of her friends are in sight.

Her chest clenches.

The floor is hard and cold, and Marinette drags herself across it. The row nearest to the stage has been emptied now, but it's an agonizing course to her nearest escape passage – a backstage door that reads 'Employees Only'.

She doesn't rise to her feet until she's close enough to touch it with her fingertips.

"Marinette, you're bleeding." Tikki observes in a hushed voice.

The seamstress wedges her petite frame through the door's heavy gap, releasing a labored breath.

"I'm fine."

It's not a lie – not entirely. Once this is over, she will be.

Adrien's safety is her priority right now. Not her dress getting ruined, not her throbbing arm, not even the fashion show. None of it matters if he's in danger.

Marinette ducks under the metal beams, past the equipment and shelved fabric. The backstage is swallowed in darkness, save for dim stage lights that leak out from under door cracks and mechanical devices. She cradles her elbow, moving behind a secluded curtain before she thumbs her earrings, assuring herself she's still wearing them.

"Okay, Tikki. Spots on."

The warm, pink light flushes over Marinette, weaving assurance through her frayed nerves.

She sidesteps one of the dense curtains, peering past the illumination that glares off the stage. Squinting past the harsh light, she can see the akuma's tall, thin figure – and Adrien, struggling for breath and clawing at the creature's arm as it focuses its attention elsewhere.

The man from the before is still standing where his seat once was, surrounded by tipped chairs and a pool of bright light. He's crying and trembling, uttering out things that Ladybug can't decipher from this distance, but she can see his quivering lips moving as the tears pour down his cheeks.

Ladybug steps out onto the catwalk, a shiver of tremulous elation shooting down her spine as she uncoils her yoyo. The words become clearer as she nears them.

"Yes!" the akuma spits, "And what else were you responsible for?"

"Financial decep–" he gags on a shuddering sob, "Deception."

The akuma's laugh is caught somewhere between delight and broken dissatisfaction.

"It's not very fun to be in the spotlight after all, is it?"

"I've never been fond of show business," Ladybug cuts in.

Her dauntless tone doesn't betray the fear pitting in her stomach, or the rising urge to steal a glance at Adrien. To catch his eyes and assure him it's going to be alright. But she doesn't dare.

The akuma whirls around, eyes crinkling with mirth as it drinks her in.

"Ah, the first guest has arrived. It's unfortunate that you're late – I do detest tardiness."

"Truth be told," she says curtly, "I don't really care what you detest. I stop caring about pleasing someone when they start terrorizing people."

The creature's mouth splits into a wicked grin.

"Terrorizing is such a strong word. Oh, my dear girl! I'm _freeing_ them! I'm exposing their nastiness so they can stop writhing in their nasty little lives. I'm shedding some _light_."

As though to emphasize its words, the spotlight intensifies over the man, and he begins to scream out garbled, incoherent sentences. She manages to catch the tail end of a confession over a bike theft when he was twelve, and then Ladybug flashes the akuma a fierce scowl.

Her eyes sweep over it, searching, scrutinizing for anything out of place. An accessory, a piece of jewelry…

"In fact," the creature continues in a low drawl, "I do believe I've neglected this pretty little thing from my ministrations."

Her pulse spikes as it glances at Adrien, nails burrowing crescents into his neck. The boy gasps for air.

"Stop!" she screams.

"He looks so innocent, don't you think?"

It lifts its other hand, pale digits dragging across Adrien's cheek, trailing over the sweat beaded on his skin. It drips down his neck, flecking across the creature's knuckles.

"But I find it's always the sweet ones," it whispers, "That hold the deadliest secrets."

Marinette's heart pounds a dangerous rhythm as she tosses out the yoyo. She doesn't hear herself say the words, but she vaguely registers the shimmer of the miraculous' lucky charm materializing.

Ladybug is supposed to be level-headed, the voice of reason in the heat of Chat's recklessness.

But he's not here.

And there's nothing reasonable about the white-hot adrenaline that tears through her, rushing in her ears as she pitches the spotted object at the akuma. A cloud of smoke erupts, billowing in a choking fog.

Marinette throws her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes closed for a brief moment as they water. Tears slip past her lashes, and she blinks past them blurrily, squinting into the thick, shrouded air.

She can hear wheezing, and what sounds like a thud, followed closely by scrambling movement and scuffling.

"Little bug," an eerie voice coughs hoarsely, "That was not wise."

_God, I should have thought that through._

Her lucky charm, her one time shot, and just like that it's gone – wasted. Chat isn't here yet, and now she has nothing but dwindling time.

"Adrien?" she croaks, dragging in a strangled breath.

No answer.

She takes a hesitant step back, her legs trembling as she feels for purchase with her heels. And then another, inwardly praying she gets a bearing on her surroundings before the fog clears.

_Where **is** he?!_

Chat should _be_ here by now.

"I feel like you have secrets of your own, little bug," the akuma says darkly, "Secrets that you'd rather keep not just from the entire world, but yourself."

Her throat feels thick, and it scratches with the need for clean air. Ladybug reaches out her free hand behind her, her fingers splayed out and grasping for something – anything.

"And when the fog clears, the truth is going to shine through."

The akuma growls out a curse, and it's close enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. She holds her breath, her chest burning. She doesn't dare utter a word, in fear it'll find her that much faster.

"Bright and honest," it snarls, " _Exposing_."

There's a heartbeat where she imagines movement – a glimmer of something in her peripheral vision. And then it's gone.

The first beep of her miraculous chimes in her ears, and her chest grows cold with dread.

"I'm not so different from you," the akuma says, "We're both seeking the same thing, Ladybug. Justice that the world denies the true criminals in this world."

It cackles – inches away, and she nearly loses her footing.

"How much effort do you think the 'good guys' really put into keeping the people out there safe? How much time do you believe the authorities spend _actually_ seeking out the man behind all this?"

Her chest flares.

"You're wrong!" she blurts.

Footfalls, to her left. She can glimpse the cut of its shoulder as it whips toward the direction of her voice.

"Am I?" the creature shrieks, "If they actually cared, then your job wouldn't be necessary, little girl. I wouldn't _be_ here."

"Hey!"

Something akin to affection and relief seizes Marinette at the sound of his voice. Her head snaps up, and she sees the familiar blond head of hair, the dark, feline ears swiveling at the slightest noise.

He's perched on the beams crisscrossing the ceiling, leaning over the row of towering stage lights that are trained on the room below. Her heart swells.

"Bad guys have always existed," Chat says sardonically, "You're not anything special, buddy."

And then his claws come down.

An electrical surge travels over the beams, and the lights flash dangerously before erupting in sparks and clapping out. She's barely had time to stumble back before the deteriorated metal above them squeals, cinders licking the stage as it tumbles down.

Ladybug flies back, head connecting with the stage with an agonizing smack. Stars burst behind her lids, and something dreadful clenches inside her. The guttural scream that fills her ears is cut short, but it stays with her, bouncing around her skull and twisting her stomach in a sickening grip.

It's a solid beat before she remembers how to breathe, and the air that she sucks in is hot and ashy. She claws at the once-smooth stage, scraping her way onto her stomach and over the floor, toward the curtains as the heat and cinders rush over her.

Ladybug coughs harshly, retching on the scent of something burning and withering away. It envelopes her senses, and she struggles to pull in a soot-coated breath.

And then hands are on her, and she doesn't have the energy to fight them off. She feels them snaking under her legs and slipping behind her back. He drags her against him, swinging her up into his chest as he lifts her. And the familiarity of his scent, of the blond hair that wisps over her face, allows enough comfort to drain the last of her energy. She grasps for him, hands weakly fumbling over his chest, clasping for his shoulders.

And the last thing she registers is Chat Noir's warm breath fanning over her neck.

_________________________________________________________________________

She had a dream.

It was just like the robbery, full of blistering heat and uncertainty. Chat was there, just as he had been before. But this time he wasn't the one being cradled – she was.

Something cool traces a moist, lovely path over her cheek and across her forehead, sending blissful tingles traveling from her fingers to her toes. It's the first thing she registers, and it balms away the traces of her nightmare.

"…Lady."

It lingers at her temple, and Marinette leans into it, pressing her face into the warm palm she finds there. There's a soft voice, and it ebbs the distant, unwelcome discomfort at the back of her head.

A content smile touches her lips as she stretches.

And then, pain.

"My Lady."

Her eyes snap open, and an ache throbs in her arm as she shoots up. Her head swims at the sudden movement, and Marinette swallows down a noise of discomfort. Panic stirs briefly in her stomach, frantically gnawing at her memory as broken recollections return to her.

_It wasn't a dream._

"Ladybug."

His voice is soft, reassuring. It seizes her attention.

"Chat Noir?"

"Yes," he affirms.

It occurs to her then that she cannot see him. Wherever they are, it's unrecognizable to her senses. She can discern vague outlines, murkier shadows that stand out against the pressing darkness. His silhouette is close enough that she could reach out and touch him.

She fists her hand in the material under her – a blanket?

"Where are we?" she whispers.

Chat hesitates. She can feel him shifting next to her.

"I didn't know where to go," he admits, "So I took us to the only place I knew would be safe and hidden."

She should be anxious. To be somewhere unfamiliar, alone with her partner. But there's a part of her – the part that trusts him wholeheartedly – that eases.

"This isn't your house, is it?"

"No."

The lump that rises in her throat is suffocating.

"What happened?"

There's trepidation in the atmosphere; she can feel it settle heavily when he doesn't respond immediately, and the hesitation stretches past a line of comfort. The silence grows thick with reluctance, and the only noise between them draws into the heavy breaths that struggle past her throat.

"Chat–"

"Please," he whispers, "Please don't ask. Not right now."

That dreadful apprehension from before – from what she had thought was a dream – returns. It sinks low in her stomach, menacing and daunting.

A sudden realization comes over her, and Marinette swallows.

"Chat, what happened to the akuma? I didn't capture it, and you know what happens when we don't–"

"There's no akuma," he says lowly, "Not anymore."

Marinette stares.

Her body aches, but whether the growing discomfort in her stomach is from the pain or from a sense of foreboding, she can't tell.

"Did you… destroy it?"

He remains quiet, but this time it's different. Disconcerting. It weighs on her with a sickening uncertainty.

Marinette reaches for him, fingertips grazing his shoulder. And it occurs to her then, with the exposed touch of his shirt against her bare palm, that she's not wearing her suit. And neither is he.

His hand clamps around her wrist, catching it in a loose grip, and her attention is drawn to the way it trembles. He lifts his head, and she can feel his gaze, even though there's no way he can possibly see her.

She realizes absently that this is the second time she's felt Chat's hand without a glove. The last time was in his bedroom, when they woke up together.

It's warmer than she remembers.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," he whispers, "I just thought it would distract him and he'd move–"

He shakes his head, his hand falling from her wrist. His voice breaks, and when the last word dissolves into a sob, Marinette forgets to breathe.

"He didn't move."

In all of the time they'd been doing this, there had been terrible outcomes. It was unavoidable when facing life or death situations. Injuries, close calls…

But never this.

She could probably tally up their good fortune thus far to Ladybug's ability to heal the damages. But the miraculous could only do so much.

And she hadn't even used it this time.

Chat's outline shudders, head hung forward as he curls up on himself. She sits there for several, long seconds, trying to think past the cresting numbness that folds over her, clouding her emotions.

She doesn't register when she moves toward him. But she feels his wet cheeks on her skin as he turns, pressing his face into her collarbone. She feels his body, much larger and lankier than her own, drape over her as he sinks into her chest. She drags her small hands over his back, his shoulders, carding them through his hair as he melts against her.

The noises that escape him become muffled, lost against her skin as he clings to her.

And her heart throbs.

It's worse than her arm or her head, worse than any of the injuries she's collected in her time being Ladybug. It aches when he shivers against her, and it pounds in her ears.

He murmurs things that she can't make out, apologies that are thick with tears and not entirely directed toward her. He cries, whispering them until his voice is hoarse and the quaking subsides.

She lightly scratches at his neck, slowly drawing her fingers over his scalp. Several long, quiet minutes pass before she realizes his crying has lessened, giving way to something else entirely.

The purring reverberates against her chest, unexpectedly soothing. She doesn't say anything, instead drawing her nails lightly over his back. It's a quiet relief, their legs tangled and heartbeats shared in tandem.

She doesn't ask him questions or prod for details, and she doesn't demand answers. Not now, not when he's like this.

She doesn't move when he lifts his chin, drawing the length of his weight forward until he settles against her again, this time burying his face into her neck. He sinks against her, and the anxiety, the fear and the pain from the last few hours, seeps away.

__________________________________________________________________

Marinette doesn't know how long they stay like that, or when she drifts into a half sleep-induced daze. It must be for some time, though, because when she becomes aware of herself again, it feels as though she's been lying still for hours.

She sluggishly registers Chat's arm snugly fit around her waist, puffs of his warm breath fanning across her forehead. Her hand is caught between them, fingertips resting against his heartbeat.

It's slow and steady, almost languid.

Distantly she can hear the click of something. It's a familiar sound, but she can't put her finger on it, and she spends a full minute lying very still and listening, trying to distinguish where she's heard it before.

Her mind turns over, lethargic and relaxed, mulling over the sound and the rise and fall of Chat's breathing. And she wonders at how long they could stay here, hidden away from the world.

Away from villains and responsibilities.

And her mind returns to why they ended up intertwined in the first place.

Marinette stirs, moving to sit up, and the arm around her waist tightens. Her breath releases from her throat in a short gasp as he drags her into his chest, her nose bumping his chin.

The rhythm under her hand picks up, thrumming a drumline against her palm.

"Please stay."

His voice is gravelly, rough with sleep and grief. It ghosts across her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine.

"We've been here too long," she points out quietly, "And I have people that are probably really worried about me."

He's silent for a moment, and she adds,

"I bet there's someone out there that's worried about you, too."

He hums, and it drags through his throat gruffly.

"I can't go back just yet," he says.

Marinette frowns.

"There was a fire, Chat. Someone–" she swallows, "Someone got hurt. We can't just stay here."

She draws a finger over a seam on his shirt, focusing on the smooth cut of the material, on the heartbeat beneath it. It grounds her, drawing her thoughts away from the implications of what waits for them outside.

His hand moves from the small of her back, drawing up over the curve of her spine, over the buttons and the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. But instead of claws, she feels his soft, slender digits lacing through her dark tresses.

"Why can't we just forget?" he utters.

His voice is low, and she can hear the ache, the yearning in his tone.

"Why can't we stop, for just a few minutes?"

His voice drags across her skin, encouraging the slip of her inhibitions.

"Chat–"

"I'm not a hero," he says lowly, "It's better if I don't go back out there."

Her chest squeezes. When he whispers, it's so soft she nearly doesn't catch it.

"I might have killed someone."

Marinette catches her lip, shoving down the ache from before. Firmly – resolutely.

"It was an accident."

"It wasn't an accident!"

He draws in a shuddering breath, and Marinette can feel it drag through his chest.

"I'm the one that used Cataclysm," Chat says, "No one else is responsible for that."

"You're wrong," she utters, "We both know who's responsible for this."

His hand stills, and she can feel the way he stiffens under her.

"Do you think anyone out there is going to look at it that way?" he undertones.

His voice is pitched low, and there's something dangerously fragile there. As though the thoughts tumbling past his lips are more than enough to break him, but facing them outside, coming to terms with them, would be the crossline.

"Do you think his family would accept it as an 'accident'? An 'unfortunate tragedy'?"

He barks a laugh, but the sound is broken, and it wedges in Marinette's chest.

"He was innoce–"

"They're all innocent," she says firmly, "None of them asked for this. None of them asked to have their most private fears and insecurities _preyed on_ by some masked lunatic. But we're the ones that have to do something about it."

He doesn't move, but she can sense the ambiguity, the guilt that weighs in the space between them.

Marinette reaches up, feeling for the cut of his jaw, the curves of his cheeks. She cups his face in her hands, scooting up until her forehead rests against his. His breath is on her chin, the scent of cologne – the same one that leaves her light-headed and wanting – filling her senses.

She imagines his green eyes and visualizes where they might be in the darkness, holding them resolutely with her searching gaze.

"You _saved_ me."

He sucks in a breath, and she feels it travel through her.

"But I didn't save him," he murmurs.

The ache swells in her, and there's that pain again – severe, unidentifiable. It rushes over her, a throbbing bruise that begs for relief.

And she's seized by the demanding urge to soothe it, to pacifythe uncertainty and the overwhelming sadness in him. Her hands smooth over his face, over the dried tears and the creases, the hurt etched into his features.

Her lips find his brow. Then his cheeks, and his nose. She traces a path over his skin, leaving butterfly-soft kisses on his jaw. If she can stave off the pain, ease the burden from his mind for even just a moment, it'd lift this unbearable pressure on her chest.

Chat stops breathing, and she doesn't realize it until he draws the air in sharply past his teeth, his hand dropping from her neck. She freezes, indecision arresting her at his reaction. When he doesn't move, Marinette's stomach drops.

"I'm sorry," she blunders, "I shouldn't have– I didn't mean it in any bad way I just–"

The air that rushes out of him is followed by an unidentifiable noise, somewhere between disbelief and relief.

"No, no, no! You're perfect, I'm just– …you're not – I mean, I _want_ –"

This time, the noise he releases is frustration. And it's cut short when ducks forward and kisses her. His lips find her chin, missing the mark, and Marinette's heart kicks into overtime. Chat's breath whispers over her skin as he releases a shuddering sigh.

There's moment that hovers between them where Marinette is snagged by a rush of need – the heavy, excruciating craving to correct his mistake. And her soft, inner voice of sensibility is hushed as she strokes his face, taking his chin in her hand as she caves.

The anger, the sadness and grief pours out as he grasps onto her. His mouth is soft and yielding as it crushes against her lips, but there's nothing lenient about the way he arches against her.

She finds solace in the naked touch of his face, without the cool cut of the mask. With a thrill of realization, it occurs to Marinette that this is the first time she's kissed the boy beneath the suit. And even without the miraculous, he still purrs underneath her, quivering as she presses into him willingly.

He drags his hand down her side, over the swell of her hip. And even without the claws she can feel the scratch of his need for her, hooking into the material of her dress and dragging her closer.

Marinette's sigh of surrender is sweet on his tongue, and he trails it across her lips, seeking out the flavor.

Chat's groan of appreciation when she catches his lip unwinds something inside her, causing a dreamy shiver to waltz up her spine. She clutches at his silky, fair hair, falling into a stumbling, acquired rhythm as his lips stir heat into her limbs.

Her head empties. It's the first time in weeks she's felt this light, and a hunger she hadn't even realized she had begins to sate. But the pressure from before, the demanding pull, doesn't lessen.

It intensifies.

His clothes are tight, she notes. Not as tight as the cat suit, but stiff enough that there's no way they're practical for regular wear. She palms the material at his throat, tugging open a gap big enough for her to hook a finger in and slip the button through. His lips move from her mouth to her jaw, leaving a path of admiring murmurs that lull her into a place that feels both sinful and safe.

Marinette gasps as he leaves a playful nibble at her collar, tracing a pattern of hot, wet kisses over the sensitive skin there. Her head swims as he grasps at the curve of her thigh, his face pressing into her throat.

She can feel the length of him in the darkness – each toned, lithe inch of his weight as he moves over her. But her mind is elsewhere, lost in the kisses he scatters across her chest, over the swell of her breasts. They rise and fall rapidly, straining under her bodice as he nuzzles appreciative purrs into them.

Marinette keens against him, her pulse thrumming in her temple as his thumb grazes over her ribs, leaving a teasing sensation at the underside of her breast. It shoots a foreign heat through her, coiling behind her navel, tightening as he presses a firm, sucking kiss to her throat.

She feels his hand dip lower, beneath the material that's bunched over her thighs, and the desire in her abdomen flares. It clouds over her thoughts, dashing away any reserves she may have managed to retain in the brief minutes they'd ended up intertwined. As though they hadn't already been chased away by the heady scent of his cologne, or his intoxicating ministrations.

The darkness makes her bold, and Marinette swipes her tongue between the seam of his lips, her knee hitching over his thigh. Instead, she misses entirely, catching between the tight material of his pants, and she feels her knee ghost over the length of his pressing excitement. Chat trembles against her, and the reaction is more than what she bargained for.

He grabs her leg, squeezing it in fiercely tight grip as he croaks out a warning.

"Please don't move," he manages, "Just for a second."

Her stomach flips, a cluster of butterflies somersaulting in her chest as he carefully eases her leg away.

There's a foreign thrill that she's never experienced, the realization that she has a power over him she hadn't anticipated. That her body, her voice, and her presence could affect him in such a way.

That her best friend, her _partner_ could be unwound.

It's an exhilarating discovery.

Her heart slams against her ribs, and Marinette only has a second of indecision before she darts forward, swallowing his gasp as she crushes against him.

If he was tremulous downfall before, he's a crashing wave now.

His growl tickles her tonsils, and she barely has a moment to collect a hint of superiority before he's flipped the tables. He presses at the base of her skull, tugging her head back to gain better access to her throat. And Marinette flushes as his mouth closes over her pulse, his hand seeking out the curve of her waist as he wedges his leg between her thighs, bridling her previous position.

A shot of pleasure arcs down her navel, sending a quaking shiver through her. A noise of surprise and delight tears past her lips, filling his mouth, and she can feel the smile it elicits from him.

Embarrassment warms her cheeks, threatening to steal away her resolve. But then Chat's hands are back at her hips, and he's dragging her over him, and Marinette snuffs another noise as he grinds against her.

A wickedly delightful rush washes over her body, and she clutches at his arms, shaking.

"Ah–"

"Trust me," he utters.

Through the fabric of his shirt she can feel his heart thudding erratically, setting a rhythm he rocks to against her. Marinette lifts a hand to her mouth, clamping out the noises that threaten to bubble out of her. But it becomes increasingly difficult as his hips draw a gentle friction against her skin, pulling taut a delightful string she can't find an end to.

He whispers encouragements against her lips, but they become lost and hazy as the pressure builds, cresting a peak she can't identify.

It rises, trekking a path she's only dared to explore in the sanctity of private moments behind closed doors. And distantly she knows what awaits on the other side, and which way Chat will take her to get there.

"Mari."

She moans against her palm, and he tugs it away, catching her mouth in a swift, hot kiss as her movements become more frantic, unmeasured.

And she can see the peak surging up to meet her, spiraling out of control as she writhes against him, unraveling.

A dam unfolds, and pleasure crashes through her, arresting her ability to retain awareness. She can vaguely feel his arms snaking around her, stroking her hair as he cradles her against him.

And then she's left, floating aimlessly in the darkness, piecing together thoughts and feelings as he slowly draws her back into reality. He kisses her crown, caressing soothing circles over her skin as Marinette slowly sinks back into her body.

The stillness that blankets them is pleasant, and her lids feel heavy, even though she must have slept for too long already. But Chat presses her into his chest, weaving her back into a sense of security and tiredness.

Maybe for just a little longer. Just another few minutes, before they have to come to terms with what this means, or what is outside.

Maybe they can stop, for just a few minutes.

Her last, nearly unconscious thought before she drifts off is of her name on Chat's lips, and how odd it is that he said it – though she's not sure why. Not now, when her mind is webbing sleep through her body and tangling her into a deep, dreamless place.


	18. Chapter 18

Adrien wakes up alone.

He probably should have anticipated it, with what had occurred in the confines of that room, and the implications behind what it would mean. Neither one of them were equipped to confront the situation, though on any other day he gladly would have.

Her absence still leaves him feeling hollow, and a sinking disappointment settles in his stomach when he stretches, feeling for the lingering warmth where her body once filled the space next to him.

_Trust me._

Despite his boldness before, he still allows himself the courtesy of embarrassment. A flush crawls up his neck, and Adrien drags his hands over his face, fighting off the urge to let out a string of incoherent noises.

_I just…with Ladybug… oh, God._

No.

_With Marinette._

This time he doesn't even try to restrain the groan that escapes him.

After a few minutes of lying on the floor and wallowing, Adrien sits up, reaching for his phone.

It lights up, and he squints blearily past the brightness, thumbing through the massive collection of texts and missed calls. He'd forgotten that he had put it on silent during the show, and he hadn't thought to turn it back on.

56 missed calls – the majority from Nino.

And then an enormous amount of texts, the most recent capitalized and littered with grammatical errors – again, from Nino.

**_'WHERE ARE YOU?'_ **

A fierce pang grips Adrien's stomach, and all the negativity, all the guilt and shame washes back over him, blotting out the last few hours of peace and comfort.

He sifts through the missed calls, noting with an expanding sense of melancholy that none are from his father.

Only Nathalie.

**_'Your father is not pleased with your lack of response – the press is waiting for a public comment on your wellbeing. Contact me immediately.'_ **

Adrien sucks in a breath, tossing the phone aside.

The building had gone up in flames – people had been injured and possibly worse – and Adrien had been missing for hours. And instead of personally reaching out to him or being distraught over his only child's disappearance, his father was concerned with the press.

He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, swallowing down the heat prickling at the back of his throat.

He already cried enough earlier, and he doesn't have the luxury of sitting here and sobbing like a small child. Truth be told, he'd rather disappear entirely than return to his father's house.

But there are other factors involved – like Nino, or school, or _Marinette_.

And even though he could visit her as Chat Noir, it wouldn't be the same. And he couldn't bear to put her through that kind of worrying.

If earlier was any type of indication, it was apparent she certainly didn't consider Chat Noir strictly a friend. But she still cared about Adrien – loved him. He couldn't just drop off the grid and expect her to just accept it, especially since she was Ladybug, and she considered the wellbeing of civilians her personal responsibility.

Adrien gathers up the blanket, shoving his phone in his pocket as he rises to his feet.

"Plagg?"

There's a solid beat of silence, and then a snuffling noise as the kwami's voice materializes near his ear.

"I didn't want to stick around for the show while you and that girl had a toss-around. So I went downstairs for some popcorn."

Adrien sighs.

"I hope you stayed out of sight. The owner is already wary enough after the last few times–"

"You know I don't mind abhorrence toward the law," Plagg sniffs, "But if you were more careful about breaking and entering, that wouldn't be an issue."

Adrien drags a thumb over his ring.

"Just listen and stay low," he says shortly.

The small creature grumbles, murmuring something about nacho cheese and his preference for undisturbed dining. Truthfully, Adrien is too tired to be upset with Plagg, and with how much the kwami had been humoring him in the past several weeks, he can't find enough reason to be.

So, he ignores the smell of powdered cheese and buttered popcorn, whispering the necessary phrase for Chat Noir's transformation. Plagg lets out one last protesting remark as he's sucked into the ring.

A green-tinted line of vision fills Adrien's eyes, and he blinks against the adjustment, taking a moment to soak in his surroundings. A sliver of light from the door inks across the floorboards, allowing enough illumination for his feline sight to grasp hold of the room's nooks and crannies.

He straightens the room, sweeping away the spot they had laid until there's no evidence of their presence here. And though the traces of Marinette's scent and touch are gone, the floor is still warm, and so is Adrien.

He ducks under old, tattered curtains, hung haphazardly over the walls and behind the door, stepping over forgotten movie reels and posters. It smells musty in this room, though he had hardly noticed it before. This part of the La Pagode is scarcely touched, and it shows.

He's not certain when the La Pagode began to feel so safe to him. The aged walls are warm and quiet, like an old friend that he revisits for the comfort and sanctity of a home he doesn't know. And since his time with Marinette, it's become a host for good memories.

Adrien follows the familiar steps, retracing the dark rafters as he finds the unlocked window he's become well-acquainted with. During the night there's an alarm on the doors, and there's an easier path he's routed through the windows, rather than the main entrance.

How Ladybug left and managed to remain unseen is a mystery.

It's an intriguing thought he'll have to question on another day, when he's not steeling himself for a visit to the Agreste mansion – where there will undoubtedly be reporters and cameras in wait.

For not the first time, Adrien wishes he could be anywhere else instead of in front of a lens.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It's been over an hour since the Agreste household opened its doors for 38 reporters. Over an hour since Nathalie sat him in front of their prying eyes, clothes properly pressed and not a hair out of place.

His father barely acknowledged his presence, his scowl assuming a polite smile as he turned his attention to the media, filling the next 46 minutes with his carefully scripted, woe-filled story of a man in distress and relief over his son's return.

It's a good act, and even Adrien can't discredit that.

But it doesn't last. The moment the house is empty again, he's left in the quiet corridor, watching the door fall closed. Gabriel pauses momentarily at the foot of the staircase, and Adrien can feel his cool, calculating gaze on the back of his neck.

"You will not be going anywhere outside of school," he states firmly, "You'll be under careful surveillance, monitored by Nathalie and your bodyguard. You may not attend any extra-curricular activities – not until this debacle is dealt with."

And then there's only the click of shoes on marbled tile left behind, and the echoing remnants of his irked disposition. Adrien twists around, catching a glimpse of his father's tall, unyielding figure receding into the dark confines of the second story.

Nathalie presses her lips into a thin line, turning on her heel, and Adrien's stomach sinks.

"Was anyone badly hurt?"

He swallows past the crack in his throat, the tightening in his chest, and wets his lips.

"Were there any… casualties?"

Nathalie's serpentine gaze cuts over her shoulder, and he can see the knitting in her brow, the analytical gears veiled behind disinterest. His heart palpitates as she takes a second too long to answer, as though mulling over what is appropriate to share.

"There were few injured," she permits, "But no deaths – not that we're aware of at this time."

If he weren't so torn on where her allegiances truly lied, he may have allowed himself the indulgence of another question. But the stiff line of her shoulders reserves his prying, and he resigns to investigate later.

______________________________________________________________________

Adrien confines himself to his room. It's quieter in there, where cool, early-evening light recedes across the floorboards and traces a path through the spaces in between.

He drapes over the edge of his bed, phone above his head as he regards the texts that have continued to pour in.

Adrien thumbs a quick message to Nino, an assurance of his safety. The reply comes so quickly he doesn't even have a chance to close the screen.

**_'dU de where have you bene? Mari and Alya have been crazy worried!'_ **

Adrien grimaces.

**_[ Ladybug saved me and I barely got out. ]_ **

**_'That's crazy man.'_ **

**_'So glad ur ok.'_ **

Adrien's heart swells, and he inwardly determines to go over to his best friend's place the first chance he gets.

Once he's allowed out of the house again, that is. Which could be… never.

At the rate he's digging himself into a hole with his father, Gabriel Agreste could start installing bars on his windows within the week.

**_[ Tell Marinette that I'm sorry about how things turned out. ]_ **

Adrien chews his cheek, eyeing the dots that bounce at the bottom of the screen.

**_'You could just tell her urself'_ **

Within a split second another message follows, this time with a familiar number. One that he already has favorited.

Adrien's chest tightens, and he stares at the message, fingers hovering over the keys. What excuse could he give for not reaching out to her?

_"Sorry, Nino, but I can't text Marinette because I already have her number, and she thinks this phone belongs to Chat Noir. Which, it does. But I can't exactly tell her that."_

He frowns, tossing the device somewhere among his blankets.

"What now?" Plagg drawls.

Adrien sucks in a breath, staring at the floor. His head is starting to swim from hanging upside down, and it doesn't help that his ears feel as though they're stuffed with cotton. Full of lies and doubts and fears that he's been pushing away for hours – days, even.

He sits up, reaching for his phone again.

Plagg huffs, indignant over being blatantly ignored. The kwami drifts up to his chosen's shoulder, slyly peering at the screen from behind the boy's ear.

Adrien thumbs through the most recent headlines, most of which are layered over menial news – Mayor Bourgeois' political movements, trending topics of interest, and then something familiar. He pauses over an article featuring shots from the fashion show, pictures of his father and many of their spokespersons, visiting celebrities, models–

Adrien skims past them, almost feverishly gliding through the article. Suggested links, bold text mentioning the _fire_.

He clicks it.

_…the most striking and disturbing detail of the Akuma attack being the aftermath… Ladybug's miraculous ability lacked an appearance and resulted in the injuries and gross property damage…_

Adrien swallows thickly.

_…Astoundingly there have yet to be any causalities. Though, the most noteworthy victim – or perpetrator – of this atrocious attack, a Jean Compte, has been reported hospitalized and under critical condition…_

"He didn't die," Adrien breathes.

Something inside of him relaxes, unwinding from a fierce, suffocating grip. Adrien leans back against his headboard, heart hammering.

"Who?" Plagg grumbles.

_…photos taken of Chat Noir scaling the skyline two blocks away from the scene of the disastrous event, holding an unconscious Ladybug…_

Adrien exits out of the article, clinging onto the relief washing over him.

"The man that was akumatized."

The relief leaves him giddy, elated. Living with the power of destruction, and the reality of what it could do if mistreated, is enough responsibility to make him sick on a daily basis.

But the concept that he could have actually ended someone's life with it…

Adrien drags a hand through his hair, throwing his feet over the edge of the bed. He has to tell Ladybug.

_Marinette._

A pair of glimmering, feline eyes follow him as he leaps for his coat, snatching up his shoes.

"I thought you were grounded," Plagg remarks dryly.

Adrien wedges his foot into his sneaker, sliding a finger in to pry an opening for his heel. His mind is already racing ahead, considering the time and how long it'll take for him to get to Marinette's house.

"Chat Noir isn't," he says.

Plagg's disapproving groan trails behind him as he crosses to one of the windows, hand moving to the latch. He's barely tugged at it, fingers stilling, when he catches sight of the bobbing heads on the other side of the gate.

A handful of reporters loiter around the arching, intricate railing, chatting amiably and sharing conspiratorial glances toward the mansion's spiraling structure. There must be at least a dozen cameras, not including the smart phones. From there, they have a perfect vantage point of the front lawn – and his windows.

The disappointment that sinks in Adrien's stomach is almost tangible.

"Looks like Chat Noir is grounded, too." Plagg notes blandly.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Gabriel Agreste held true to his word.

Nathalie's scrutinizing gaze follows Adrien throughout his daily routine the next morning, a lingering presence haunting his every movement. He barely manages to dress and brush his teeth with the Gorilla's shadow looming over him, breathing down his neck.

If his father could strap a camera to his chest, he has no doubt the man would be willing to find a way.

The only sliver of privacy he manages is his time in the bathroom, where Plagg moans over his empty stomach and malnutrition. Adrien manages to snuff his complaints with a promise of sneaking some food in his bag for later.

The drive to school is longer than he remembered it being. There's a tense, palpable silence that stretches in the car, and Adrien focuses on the smudged sidewalks and withered trees outside the window. He idly twists the silver band on his finger, thumbing the indentions and memorizing the texture to distract his mind.

From his father.

From the noose at his throat, looping tighter, severing his freedom. It feels as though every time he wedges a finger in, slipping free an opening for breath, it snaps back into place.

He leans his head against the glass, parting his lips, watching as his heavy breath steams across it. Adrien absently drags his finger across the misty window, narrowing his eyes when he realizes what he's drawn.

A flash of movement and color draws his eyes past the fading butterfly as the car rolls to a stop. An array of reporters linger outside the steps of the school, crisp coats buttoned to their throats, poised cameras slung at their necks and in their hands. The car idles, and Nathalie motions something to the Gorilla, her eyes flashing toward the crowd.

Predatory, guarded.

"Adrien," she says evenly, "Don't open the door."

He doesn't respond.

This has happened before – once, when he'd first engaged in modeling for his father's company. And then again, when one of their fashion lines had gone viral.

He's no stranger to media coverage, but this is different, and he doesn't need Nathalie to tell him for him to know.

The Gorilla circles the car, and Nathalie has already slipped out to follow him, positioning herself outside Adrien's door before the reporters catch sight of them. Her hand flies to his shoulder as they flock forward, and Adrien ducks his head, features schooling into a practiced, neutral expression.

"Adrien, are you still planning on touring Europe this spring for your father's upcoming collection?"

"Taking into account the recent event, will you still be modeling for the Agreste brand?"

"Does your father blame Ladybug and Chat Noir for the property damage sustained at the show?"

Nathalie's palm is a firm pressure at his shoulder blades, guiding him toward the school doors as they ascend the steps. Dozens of shoes smack the cement around him, clamoring into his personal space. He watches his feet, counting his breaths as he toes over the ice, focusing on the slap of his school bag against his hip.

"No comment," Nathalie bites.

A weight slams into his side, and Adrien stumbles forward, feeling Nathalie's grip tighten.

"Back off!" she says sharply.

The Gorilla cuts to his right, shoving back the line of reporters pressing in, and for the first time, Adrien feels gratitude wash over him toward the towering man.

"You already received your statement," Nathalie says icily, "There will be no further comment at this time."

His toes touch the threshold, and Adrien lifts his eyes as the front doors swing open. Nathalie urges him forward, and Adrien only has a brief moment to cast a quick glance over his shoulder before they slam shut, leaving the Gorilla behind. The bodyguard plants himself in front of them, and Adrien is left in the quiet entrance, with only the clamoring of muffled inquiries left behind him.

The headmaster's figure is cut in the shadow of the archway, and he offers Adrien a sympathetic smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Mr. Damocles," Nathalie greets, "I appreciate your consideration of Adrien's wellbeing."

"Of course."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to stay. If you wouldn't mind allowing his bodyguard to remain here–"

"Adrikins!"

Three pairs of eyes shift to the bobbing head of blonde hair, taking the stairs two at a time as she flies across the courtyard. Adrien steels himself as Chloe covers the rest of the distance in a sprint. She throws her arms over his shoulders, her weight slamming into his chest as she showers his cheeks in adoring kisses.

"Miss Bourgeois," the headmaster gruffs, "I don't think that's quite appropriate–"

"Oh, Adrikins, I was so worried! There were so many reporters outside, and I thought you might get swarmed and not even be able to come! I tried to offer them an exclusive interview, but they wouldn't even budge."

"Miss Bourgeois–"

"I was there at the fashion show, you know. And they didn't even bother asking me about it!"

She pouts prettily, and Adrien manages a rueful smile.

"This is an absolute _disaster_ ," she plows on, "Your perfect hair is completely ruined – not that you're not dreadfully gorgeous anyway, because you still are. But honestly! What a mess!"

She fusses over his hair, pawing at the mussed, pale strands as Nathalie and Mr. Damocles look on. The secretary presses her lips into a thin line, looking notably wearied.

"I'll leave him to you, then," she remarks, clasping her hands as she turns toward the doors.

The headmaster sputters, turning his attention from the teenagers to the secretary's retreating figure, and then back again. Adrien's pleading look draws the older man's attention, and he clears his throat, gesturing toward the second floor.

"Alright, then, Miss Bourgeois," he utters, "Class just started – we wouldn't want to be late."

Chloe tosses a disinterested glance toward Mr. Damocles, looping her arm through Adrien's. She flashes the boy a pearly smile.

"You can sit by _me_ today. Sabrina is sick."

Adrien forces a pleased smile, fighting down the apprehension in his stomach. He wouldn't mind on any other day – truly. But all things considered, he'd been hoping to have a chance to talk to Nino, to get some things off his chest.

To sit in front of Marinette.

"Don't worry," Chloe says sweetly, "I won't let anyone else bother you today."

________________________________________________________________________________

Class is long and agonizing.

Partially because he hardly slept at all the night before, with the previous day's events stuffing his brain and making it impossible to find solace. His mind was too preoccupied with the akuma attack, and everything that had unfolded after.

_Marinette._

He tries to keep his attention carefully focused on the board throughout the lessons, but most of the lecture is drowned out by his thoughts, drifting in one ear and leaking out the other. Chloe's dedicated presence isn't obliging either, with her small voice chirping in his ear every moment there's room for breath.

Her hand finds permanent residence at the crook of his arm, and on the small of his back. He nearly grows dizzy with the scent of her perfume – freshly reapplied in consistent intervals. And while he knows she means well, he finds the effort to be cordial unbearable.

His eyes keep returning to the clock, and when he's able to chance it, covertly toward the desk directly behind Nino's.

Alya looks perturbed, and it only takes one cut of her honeyed gaze in his direction for him to stiffen and twist back around, his attention snapping back to the board.

Adrien sinks further into his seat, feeling the minutes tick by like languid heartbeats. He focuses on the pale sunlight spilling across the floor from the wide, open windows, on Madame Bustier's level, melancholy tone drilling out formulas as she scribbles them across the board.

His gaze follows the numbers as they loop under her hand, the scratch of chalk staining her fingers, and her voice carries him into the second hour, then the third, lulling the entire class into an inert state of fatigue until lunch rolls by.

He doesn't feel the questioning gaze behind him, or register Madame Bustier's dismissal till some time later. Adrien is wrenched into the present by a hand slapping down on the desk in front of him, and Chloe's shrill response.

"You coming to lunch?"

His head whips up, eyes bleary from the indistinct, dream-like haze he must have drifted into. Nino stares down at him pointedly.

"He's eating with me," Chloe states contemptuously.

As though it should have been obvious – as though Nino's intrusion is both insulting and laughable. Nino raises an eyebrow, an expression that clearly states he neither noticed nor cares.

"Actually, I was thinking about stepping out for a second," Adrien says evenly.

He can feel Chloe's attention shift to him instantly, alarmed – concerned? It's difficult to distinguish. He clears his throat, swallowing down the hesitation before it can seep into his tone.

"My stomach's kind of uneasy, so I thought I'd get some fresh air–"

"I can go with you–"

"And use the bathroom," he quickly adds.

Her disappointment is palpable.

"Alright, man. If you need anything I'll be downstairs with Alya and Marinette."

Nino bumps his fist against his friend's shoulder, crossing toward the door. If Adrien had less self-control, he may have followed.

He can feel Chloe's dejection, carefully guarded behind her puckered lips as she peers into her compact. She remains silent for several, long seconds, reapplying her lipstick and swiping the color several times over. It isn't until he moves to stand that she speaks up.

"I ordered Butler Jean to send something special today for lunch."

There's something akin to indecision in her voice, and it tugs at Adrien. He stares until she snaps her mirror shut, eyes slanting toward him.

No, not indecision. Vulnerability.

"I'll have him bring it up for when you get back."

The façade he's grown accustomed to has softened, and he sees past it to a glimpse of a younger time. When Chloe's biggest concerns were traded out for stuffed toys instead of makeup. When her prickly exterior was susceptible to tears and fits of longing for affection.

It's jarring, and he lingers a second longer before responding.

"Okay."

He should have said not to bother, to leave her to her devices instead of having her wait hand and foot for him to return, like she unwittingly would. But there's something there, in the privacy of two childhood friends with a trove of memories, that Adrien is defenseless to.

And in some sense, he feels responsible.

Responsible for the indirect distance he's begun to place between them, for the lack of positive influence in her life. For the obvious discomfort she's been shouldering from his absence.

There was a lot of bonding with Chloe after what happened with his mother. And to ignore that, to turn her away, would not only be irresponsible, but also cruel.

"You might want to eat without me; it could take a while," he says honestly.

She brightens, and the pout gives way to a self-satisfied smile. Consideration is not Chloe's specialty, but he can see the genuine hopefulness there. And it's enough.

"Well, okay. But hurry back."

__________________________________________________________________________________

Adrien hadn't intended on spending his lunch period in a bathroom – though that had been what he told Nino.

His intention had been to speak with Marinette. To pull her aside, somehow, without drawing the eyes of every interested, prying spectator in their class (namely Alya). But whatever the solution was, it had eluded him.

He wanders to the only isolated spot he can think of where Marinette might end up.

It's an inward battle he fights valiantly, staring at the sign on the door, reasoning to himself that during leisure time _all_ girls eventually end up coming to the lavatory. But the image that surfaces to his mind, of being caught outside the girls' bathroom by a group of his own female classmates, is enough to stir dread in his stomach.

Gentleman do not loiter outside girls' bathrooms, and the mortification he would experience if it were to reach his father's ears almost makes him bolt.

But quite truthfully, he can't think of any other option.

To text her, as Chat Noir, would raise questions he can't answer. To ask someone else to fetch her for him would cause the same issues he'd been trying to avoid by remaining inconspicuous. And a note on her desk would most likely be received too late, when lunch is over.

It's this line of thought that distracts him from the approaching footsteps around the corner. A solid beat passes before the recognition hits, and a panic-induced shot of adrenaline plummets straight to his stomach as her voice reaches his ears.

Adrien has been in plenty of fight-or-flight situations. As Chat Noir, in the heat of battle, when he's been stripped to pure instinct and quick-witted decisions. And outside of the Miraculous, one would like to think his reactions would be just as level-headed and commendable.

But there is nothing admirable about the split-second grab he makes for the door knob in front of him, or the way his heart lurches into his throat as he throws his back against the wall on the other side.

He can only imagine the inevitable conversation he'll be having with Plagg later, and the gut-wrenching laughter from his kwami that will be sure to follow.

A select number of thoughts fly through his head in those agonizing seconds before the door opens.

The sheer chance that out of all the girls in the school, the one he'd been hoping to talk to would be the one to catch him in a humiliating predicament – for one.

And secondly, the image of Marinette Dupain-Cheng backhanding him.

Which, knowing the muscle she's acquired from their time in hero work, would probably be far more painful than the blow to his self-esteem.

The jackhammer rhythm of his pulse in his ears is nearly loud enough to drown out her footsteps as the door eases open. The tiled wall is cold against his back, and Adrien digs his spine into it, praying the door doesn't hit him.

And then there's the third thought, which is infinitely the most foolish, ridiculous one of the three – and, coincidentally, is what grasps hold of his anxiety and throws him forward. It passes his fearful, muddled brain as follows:

If she doesn't see him, he won't be caught.

Which is sound in theory, and insanity in action.

He sees the hem of her shirt as the door falls closed behind her, and there's a breath where all common sense leaves his brain as he grabs for the handle. And whether it's her keen senses as a Miraculous user, or common instinct, Marinette's head turns.

Adrien doesn't know what possesses him when he grabs her.

There's a suffocating sense of absurd alarm that steals him, and before he's had a moment to entertain logic, his hands have changed directions. Marinette releases a startled noise when he seizes her. She squirms against his hands – one over her eyes, and the other looped at her waist – and Adrien's feels his heart skip into double time as she throws her weight against him.

It's a trained movement, and one he's familiar with. If it were anyone else, she would have had them flat on the floor within two seconds. But he feels the shift, anticipates her elbow as it drives back, and Adrien steels his gut, tightening the muscle in time for the impact.

He throws them both against the door, seeing stars as his head connects with the hard surface. Despite her petite frame, the strength in her small limbs is enough to strain him, and Adrien barely manages to throw out a leg for support before she tosses them both to the tile.

If he thought sparring with Ladybug was a challenge, then fighting off a fearful Marinette is a feat.

She flings back her head, smashing her crown against his nose, and the noise he releases is nothing short of wounded.

Marinette grows still immediately, and he can feel her slacken with surprise.

"Chat?"

If he wasn't clinging onto her desperately, with the fear of being caught looming over him, he'd be cradling his nose. He doesn't have to touch it to know that it's bleeding – he can taste it.

She's stopped struggling, and he doesn't realize why until he feels her hand move to his bare arm – currently clutching at her middle.

_Shit._

"Chat," she says breathlessly, "What are you doing here?"

Out of your suit?

She doesn't ask it, but it's a wordless question that hangs between them.

He imagines he can feel her heart, jumping against her ribs and setting a pace that reflects his. His chest rises and falls heavily as he sucks in breaths from their skirmish, and Adrien struggles to string together coherent thoughts.

_So much for talking to her as Adrien._

He plucks the first thought that comes to mind.

"I was worried about you, after what happened at the fashion show."

_Not a lie._

"So you came to _my school_?"

Adrien's thoughts scatter. An anxious realization throbs in his head – or it could just be from hitting it a few too many times recently. He had gotten himself into a ludicrous situation, and now it could cost him.

"You could have texted me, or stopped by my place later like you usually do, but instead you came here?!"

He swallows down the tension in his stomach.

"A lot of people were hurt," he says quietly, "I needed to see for myself, and I couldn't wait."

He can feel her warm breath on his wrist, heavy and uneven as her slender fingers grasp at the material of his sleeve. It's a pressure he's keenly aware of.

"So you cornered me in a bathroom?"

He blunders, embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to! I was going to grab you in the cla–"

The words catch in his throat, and he clamps down on them so hard he nearly questions the source of the copper tang in his mouth. He can feel Marinette stiffen against his chest, the soft slope of her shoulders growing rigid under his collar.

"In the… class?" she breathes.

If he wanted to crush his head against the door one more time, this would be the opportune moment.

"Yeah," he utters.

There's a thick, indecisive atmosphere that settles under his affirmation, and it fills the space where their heart-pounding scuffling had been. Marinette stays very still, drawing out a silence that's more unnerving than if she had thrown him to the floor.

He'd almost prefer the alternative.

His blood rushes in his ears, louder than the heavy breathing he'd managed to bring to a reasonable level. And he doesn't hear the footsteps on the other side of the door, or the voice that calls out. It's the push against his back, the knocking that follows, that alerts him to the fact that they're not alone.

And the panic from before returns.

Marinette stirs, as though being brought from a reverie, and he feels her grip on his arm tighten.

"No one can see us in here together," she says softly.

He's inclined to agree; the results could be catastrophic – in more ways than one.

"I'll keep my eyes closed," she tugs on his hand, "Get in one of the stalls."

The door bounces against his back, and Adrien's heart leaps with it.

"I know the door isn't locked," Alix Kubdel says impatiently, "So get off it."

Marinette yanks at his arm, harder this time.

"It'll be suspicious if she se–"

"It's already suspicious!" she hisses.

From the other side of the door, Alix lets out a noise that sounds less than pleased. His gaze darts to the open stall across from the door, and he drops his hand, snagging Marinette's wrist. She releases an alarmed gasp as he snatches her forward, tugging her into the stall after him. He feels her stumble into his back, and Adrien twists around, closing the door in time to see a glimpse of pink hair entering the bathroom.

"Not cool," Alix calls irritably.

Footsteps echo across the tiled room, and he hears another stall swing open somewhere to their right. Adrien backs up until his calves dig into cold porcelain, his hands balled at his sides, heart in his throat. He prays that Alix won't notice the second pair of feet under the stall.

A crown of dark hair tickles his chin as Marinette squirms, adjusting herself to fit in the awkward, confined space. Her nose bumps against his chest.

If the cramped movement wasn't enough to make him breathless, the proximity certainly is.

"This is ridiculous," he hears her whisper, so quietly it's nearly lost.

He pitches a response low, under his breath.

"Do you want to be caught?"

"The only one who doesn't belong in here is _you_ ," she points out.

Adrien glances down. Her dark bangs are mussed, and between the inky strands he can see her fluttering lashes, eyes squeezed shut with concentration. Petal pink lips, dented from her worrying nibbles, part as she sucks in an unsteady breath.

Like this, he can look at her openly, study her features without consequence.

"It's impolite to stare," she undertones.

Adrien prickles with embarrassment.

"Maybe I'm not looking at you," he replies coyly.

"I can feel your breath on my face."

"Everyone needs to breathe, Marinette."

He can see her cheeks warming, the indignation that steals across her features.

"Yes, but I can feel you staring."

This close, he can smell her shampoo.

It brings him back to the cozy perch in her room, the tangled blankets in the La Pagode's quiet attic. She shifts in front of him, hand brushing his pant leg, and he nearly forgets they're stuck in a bathroom stall together. He nearly forgets that, with or without the transformation, he is Chat Noir right now.

And this time, the erratic pace of his heart isn't just from fear of discovery.

"Do you dislike it?"

"Well," she says softly, "It's not entirely fair considering I have to keep my eyes closed."

The toes of her flats press flush against his sneakers, and he can feel soft cotton on his knuckles. Her shirt, or jacket. Truthfully, he's too distracted to tell.

"There's a way to remedy that."

He'd meant it to be teasing, but instead it comes out low, husky. It's a tone he fails to reel in, and her reaction steals the best of his rationality.

Usually there's an annoyed quip, or a smack on his arm. Something to cut the tension before it's even had a chance to find purchase. But just like the night on the roof, and the following interactions that have unfolded since, there's something particularly _softer_ and more indulgent in Marinette's responses that leaves Adrien winded.

He can hear Alix in the stall over, the hobbling sounds of toilet paper being unraveled.

"I'm not looking," Marinette murmurs softly.

There's a hesitance in her voice, and it wavers, betraying the inches between them that have ceased to exist.

"I know," he utters.

When she lifts her chin, her cheek brushing his Adam's apple, he can nearly taste the scent of the bakery on her skin. Sugar, spice, and a maddening rush that undeniably will come crashing down later.

It's a high he doesn't mind revisiting.

It's stupidity, thinking of her this way when they're only a fraction from being caught. And the thrill is diverting, almost enough to make him forget civility.

Her lashes flutter, feather-light kisses on his neck that cause something to dip beneath his stomach, just behind his navel, and Adrien has to swallow down the sigh that rises in his throat.

There's muffled movement from the stall over as Alix unlatches the lock, and his chest tightens. No sound is passed save for the heavy, shared breaths of anticipation, and they skirt across Adrien's nerves and set him on edge.

A flush bubbles through the pained silence, and the squeal of the sink as Alix washes her hands. Marinette inches into his chest as the skater's feet shuffle across the floor, and Adrien's stomach flips.

"Next time, if you're wanting to make-out on lunch break, find a utility closet," the pink-haired girl grumbles.

The door creaks, letting out a quiet thud as it falls closed behind her.

Several seconds pass, and Adrien blows out a long breath, a weak relief stealing his knees. The tension that coiled inside him unravels, fizzing in his chest as a nervous hysteria, and he struggles to maintain his composure as it threatens to escape him.

"Why are you shaking?" Marinette murmurs, suddenly alarmed, "Is there something wrong?"

He feels her hand under his heart, a gentle pressure that does nothing to stave off the pained mirth that strains against his ribs.

"What?" she demands.

When he sniggers, Marinette scowls into his shirt.

"You're so juvenile."

He barely coughs out a response, choking on his laughter, "What?"

"Someone mentions kissing and you start laughing like a little kid that thinks girls have cooties."

This time, his tone is teasing.

"Do _you_ have cooties?"

He can't see her roll her eyes, but he imagines it just the same.

"I guess you'll never know," she says evenly.

He can feel her slender, seamstress fingers hooked in the hem of his shirt, clutching for leverage. But despite the dwindling seconds that drain by, she doesn't move to leave, and neither does he. He becomes aware of their position again, of the intimacy that's been shared in similar, quiet moments, and it sobers him.

Adrien had intended on just coming here to talk to her. To apologize for everything that had happened at the show, to ask if he could try to make it up to her – take her somewhere where there wouldn't be another disaster, another akuma attack.

But instead he'd ended up tangled in distraction, clasping on to the last shreds of decency his upbringing had left him with – again.

Somehow, she always finds a way to unwind him.

"What if I want some?" he murmurs.

The ache in him isn't just from the barely-restrained laughter from before. It surfaces where her fingers trace, one hand grasping at his shirt and the other smoothing a delicious path over his ribs. Moving down, toward his waist, where he ceases to function.

Whether it's an innocent gesture, or on purpose, she's successfully managed to unravel his senses and he can hardly formulate coherent thoughts.

"For someone that claims to be a gentleman, you have terrible manners." she remarks softly.

His mind jumps back to her voice over the phone, sighing against his ear on a dark and snowy Parisian street. The warm scent of her scarf under the shroud of withered trees – the scratch of her handwriting on parchment paper. The conversation whispers in his temple, and Adrien feels his hesitance bleed away as his forehead brushes hers.

"I can say please," he says, "And thank you."

His heart trips, hammering into an uneven rhythm as her nose brushes his. And there's a brief moment where the quiet closes in on them, and he can hear the quivering breath she pulls in, feel the heat as it fans over his lips.

"I'm not looking," she whispers again.

"I know," he repeats.

It's an unbearable struggle, resisting the urge to chase away the resolve and formality they've attempted to string together in the last several minutes. School or no school, his hormones war against his better judgement.

"Shouldn't you be with Ladybug?" she says lowly.

If there was anything he expected to come from her mouth, that wasn't it.

"With Ladybug?"

She stands very still, erratic heartbeats that draw him from the disorienting haze that's flushed over them. He feels her pull away, hands falling as she takes a step back, and Adrien can feel his heart drop.

Her dark hair has escaped her ponytails in wisps, bangs tousled and cheeks rosy. There's something alarmingly careful in her expression that wrenches him back down from the high he'd been climbing, and Adrien feels the imminent traces of shame cresting in.

"What are we doing?"

The statement is hushed, vulnerable. There's a raw sadness in her tone that cuts him.

"We said we'd help each other," she whispers, "Accomplices, right? Nothing else."

"I– "

"I _told_ you I loved someone else. I told you we couldn't do anything, that we _shouldn't_. But you kept pushing, and we're here all over again."

She kneads the heels of her hands into her eyes, head bowing, and Adrien feels his stomach dip. But this time there's nothing elating about it.

"And I kept encouraging it," she says miserably, "And now everything is a _mess_ and you won't leave me alone, even though you like someone else, too–"

"Marine–"

"And I don't know if I want you to," she blurts.

Adrien forgets to breathe. It's an interesting combination of discomfort and exhilaration that swoops through his insides, seizing hold of his throat till he feels like he might choke. And all he can manage is to stare, tongue-tied and bewildered.

She bites down on her lip, and he can see the blue of her irises, watery and unfocused as she looks pointedly at the floor. It's several long breaths, an inch of discolored tile separating their feet, and Adrien's own uncertainty that span the full minute of silence that passes between them.

When Marinette reaches for the handle, he feels his resolve plummet.

"Mari–"

His hand is on the door, and he can see the line of her shoulders stiffen. The way she pauses, fingers trembling, twists his insides.

"You called me that before."

The statement shouldn't sound daunting, but it shadows over his conscious, drawing trepidation through him like a bowstring. Her voice drops into a near-whisper.

"And you said that you were going to grab me in the classroom earlier."

He doesn't respond, and he can see her weigh under the silence, gripping the handle tightly, knuckles paling. Seconds, or minutes, sluggishly dragging by – senseless and uncertain. They seep under their feet, dripping and trickling between them like a leaked faucet, and Adrien doesn't know how to cut off the source before it spills over.

"I know you," she utters, "Don't I?"

The question wrenches his heart, and he can feel the tap release.

Spattering over everything, bleeding the ink over the pages he'd been carefully filing in the back of his mind. Secrets carefully sealed away, promises he vowed to keep – sinking. It wedges in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He reaches for her, but the door gives. He's barely managed her name, felt her jacket slip past his fingers, before she's ducked out of his grasp.

"I have people waiting on me outside," she says quickly.

He can hear the water dripping against porcelain, the fading footsteps after the door falls closed behind her. Drizzling into the drain, disappearing.

Louder than his pulse, thrumming in his ears. It's steady, a monotonous drumline he tries to pace his breathing to.

Distantly he knows that at any moment, the door could open again, and Marinette or someone else could find him standing in the middle of the bathroom. Unmasked, exposed. But there's a detachment that subdues the energy to care, and Adrien finds himself allowing it to fill him.

_Better than a pushy stray._

Better to be a prince than a perfect facade shrouded behind a mask. Better to be a perfect son, a perfect friend, a perfect partner – obedient and kind and understanding and _selfless_.

Better to be a prince.

_"I'm not looking."_

But God, he'd wanted her to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey, everyone! So, we have only a few chapters left for this fic, and the story/plot is going to start snowballing pretty quickly from here. Again, I wanted to emphasize how inspiring your comments have been, and how they've fueled my ability to keep writing this fanfic this whole time. Your dedication means the world to me!_
> 
>  
> 
> _I'm planning on starting another fic shortly after this one (or maybe before I post the last chapter?). If you're interested, let me know in the comments and I'll be sure to update you on when it's out. Additionally, you can follow me on Tumblr (under the same username) for frivolous content or any questions you have between updates._
> 
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> _Thank you!_


	19. Chapter 19

Marinette determines not to speak to Chat Noir.

She decides this the night of the school restroom incident, sitting on the ledge of her balcony, bundled-up and overlooking the streets below.

It's a thought that stays with her, whispering at her ear as the hours trickle away and she takes a pen to paper. It bleeds through the lines, until the voice is no more than smudged ink and scratched words disappearing under her fingers.

The sentences are inscrutable at first, tumbling past her hands and into paragraphs she doesn't recognize. It winds together in messy lettering – quiet thoughts she's barely voiced, let alone written. Marinette hardly registers the time as it draws in and dips behind the horizon.

Two words stand out against her swimming vision, leaden against the pale paper, titling the entire piece like a heralding introduction.

_Dear Adrien_

She retraces their shapes, eyes growing heavy as they follow the stark lines. The letters wear into her vision, burning against her lids as her eyes shutter.

Despite her promise to herself, the seconds before she nods off are suspended with repressed memories. A confined bathroom stall, her partner's voice ghosting across her skin, warm breath on her lips and the cool drip of tap water echoing off tiled walls. She's haunted by the memory of his hands, grasping for her sleeve, the pain laced in his tone.

Her subconscious betrays her, and Marinette can't escape him here, where her mind traps the honesty and the indecision. They are vivid, vulnerable dreams, and she is suffocated by their truth.

The cold wakes her, and Tikki's concerned voice at her ear, urging her to move inside. Exhaustion drags Marinette in, and she doesn't recall the short trip across her balcony and through the trap door.

But she surfaces sometime in the late morning, when the sun is already bleeding through the curtains, and it cuts through the cold, heavy glaze of her quiet bedroom.

Marinette lays very still, squinting past the light and gathering her senses. She's fallen asleep in unconventional places before – on her desk, in her partner's bed, an old theatre attic…

But never on a cold, winter-bitten balcony. It's unsettling, and there is an anxiety in her stomach, layered beneath the fatigue, that she can't chase away.

She feels her kwami's presence before she sees her. Tikki drifts into her line of vision, cerulean eyes set against a small, rounded face. The small creature considers her, looking more alert than she has in weeks.

"Do you have school today?" she murmurs.

Marinette's heart leaps, lodging in her throat.

"Yes," she says dejectedly.

Tikki hums.

"You're late, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Marinette groans, dragging herself into a sitting position. Her head throbs, throat catching as she attempts to swallow back the last six hours of fitful sleep.

She lifts a finger, squinting past it to Tikki.

"Do you think they'd expel me if I called in for just one sick day?"

"Are you feeling sick?" the kwami asks, amusement coloring her tone.

Marinette frowns.

Her head is stuffed with cotton, throat scratchy and aching. If she hadn't spent half the night dozing on her balcony in the cold, she may have dismissed it as a side effect of the early morning.

But she's fought through sickness before, for long weekends working in her parents' bakery, filling orders. For school days that she just couldn't bear to miss.

Admittedly, even for a charity event Adrien participated in at an animal shelter.

_Adrien._

No, she can't miss school; if she doesn't see him today, she might lose her courage to.

"It's probably from falling asleep in the cold. I'll be fine," she says quietly.

The seamstress fumbles down the ladder, Tikki shadowing her with quiet concern. Marinette reaches for her phone.

_8:50 a.m._

Too late for breakfast.

"I'm surprised Maman didn't wake me," she muses out loud.

"There's a note downstairs," Tikki says, "Both of your parents had to make a large delivery early this morning. They won't be back till later this afternoon."

Marinette sighs heavily, reaching for her shoes.

"Well, I suppose I'll just have to hope Madam Bustier is merciful."

She snatches her coat off the chaise, pausing as she catches a glimpse of white parchment in her peripheral vision. The letter is folded up fairly neatly, considering she'd been half asleep when she'd written it.

_Adrien._

If she doesn't do it today, she'll regret it.

She's resigned herself to letting the cards fall in place. Leaving her choices to fate had felt like the path of least resistance – the easiest outcome. Her refusal to accept responsibility for the consequences had paved a dangerous road, and she had trekked it, taking Chat Noir with her.

She'd tangled the both of them in a web of her own cowardice, and then she'd grown angry at him. As though it was his fault that she had accepted his advances. As though he were the villain in their increasingly complicated narrative.

Marinette swallows down her reservations, reaching for the letter. Her stomach clenches as she shoves it into her bag.

No more letting the cards fall where they may; no more running away.

She will untangle this – she _has_ to.

_I have been dealt a hand, and I will play it._

___________________________________________________________________________

The snow has reprieved into a forecast of dark clouds over Paris.

Marinette takes the school steps two at a time, her head swimming as she scales the railing. She ducks into the classroom with hushed footfalls, easing the door closed behind her. Madam Bustier faces the board, a textbook precariously balanced in one hand, and chalk in the other. Messy lettering is scattered across the board, outlining the hastily scribbled anatomy of a toad.

Marinette catches Alya's gaze, and her friend gestures to her, motioning to the empty spot at their shared seat. It's nothing short of a feat that Marinette manages to reach the desk without tripping up the steps.

Her bag barely slips from her shoulders when a note slides into her line of vision.

_Are you okay?_

She offers Alya a weak smile. When she pushes the note back over, the blogger raises her eyebrows, her look of concern shifting to one of amusement.

_I overslept._

Alya scribbles out a response within seconds.

_You look like a mess._

Usually Marinette would shoot her a look of feigned offense, but today she scarcely achieves a tired grimace. She glances from the page of her textbook to Alya's pen, tapping pointedly on their note.

_Well, you missed all the fun._

"…you would expect. But this type of environment is actually a supreme breeding ground for–"

Madam Bustier turns around, and for a heavy moment her peering gaze settles on the two girls. Marinette stiffens, expecting a lecturing voice. Every moment she's ever been late returns to her in that breath of a second, and she inwardly debates if all of them gathered up till this point would merit a call to her parents.

But then the moment is gone, and the woman adjusts her attention to another student, dropping Marinette's heart back into her chest.

"Hey," Alya whispers.

When she looks over, she's met with an exasperated frown. The pen taps again, this time more insistent. Marinette's eyes drop back to the note.

_You'll never guess what Alix saw yesterday._

Something uncomfortable stirs at the back of her head, and she pushes it down.

_Do I want to know?_

Alya's honeyed irises flash to her, incredulous, as though it's unheard of that anyone could possibly pass up the opportunity for a juicy scoop. There's apprehension that settles heavily in her gut as Alya scribbles on the piece of paper.

_Yesterday, during lunch, there was a couple in the girls' bathroom – making out._

Marinette's pen flies off the desk.

To be more precise, she fumbles in an attempt to reach for it, and it clatters unceremoniously across the wooden surface, smacking a head of blonde hair seated beneath them.

If it were possible for her to be struck dead from an assembly of the sheer anxiety from the last few days, Marinette is certain it would have happened right at this moment.

Adrien stoops over, hand grazing over the floor as he grasps hold of the assaulting pen. She nearly chokes when he turns around.

"Did you drop this?"

His eyes are exceptionally green today, and she resents herself for noticing. The smile that curves his mouth is no more splendid or incomparable to any other one he's offered her within their time together as classmates. But today it's infinitely more damning, with the weight of the letter in her bag, and it's enough to make her heart feel as though it may burst from her chest.

Marinette plucks the wretched thing from his hand, willing herself to return the pleasantry.

"Thank you," she says shortly.

When he twists back around, she inwardly utters a select expletive.

She hasn't spoken to him since the fashion show incident – not since before that, actually, seeing as he wasn't aware she was Ladybug at that time. There's a palpable peculiarity in their interactions that Marinette does not know how to breach, and it leaks into every bump and word that passes between them.

She's uncertain when exactly her exchanges with Adrien began to feel so pressing – so _charged_. As though there were something unspoken and heavy paved between them, and she had managed to overlook it till now.

The rest of the class passes languidly, as though it knows that Marinette harbors no stronger desire than to leave. There's nothing she'd like more than to forget about her purpose for coming and crawl back into her bed.

Her weariness must be transparent, because Alya doesn't push for a response to their previous note passing. It's no great surprise when Madam Bustier's lesson fades into a backdrop of muted noise, and her head bobs, slowly sinking to the papers under her arm.

She's chased into a state of half-conscious lethargy by incoherent and nonsensical dreams. They wind through the slow, leisure hours of the afternoon, and Marinette isn't even aware she's drifted off until she feels a cool hand on her forehead, wrenching her from them.

The touch is soft and familiar, and it smooths back her bangs, drawing a sigh from her lips. A waft of something warm and sweet fills her senses, and she's pulled back into the comfort of a recent memory. The quaint privacy of her room, snow falling outside the window and a lean, lithe shadow looming over her.

_He always wears that cologne._

"Marinette."

She cracks her eyes open, nearly expecting a pair of vivid, feline irises to greet her.

Adrien frowns, and her gaze is drawn from the sloping line of his brow to the mussed, blond strands of hair caught in his lashes.

_His hair is getting longer._

His face is level with hers, figure stooped as he leans into the short space between them. She doesn't even register the press of his hand at first, his sleeve tickling her cheek. She's drawn into the sullen concern in his expression, the way his gaze settles on hers – as though there's no time here, and she's suspended in something immeasurable.

A beat passes before the recognition of their proximity sets in, the implications of his closeness, and Marinette flusters, sitting up abruptly. The heat crawls across her skin, and Adrien straightens, visibly embarrassed.

"I thought you might have a fever," he says simply.

Marinette's hands fly to her face, as though caging the scarlet blooming in her cheeks might chase away the mortification.

"I don't," she says quickly, "I'm just wearing too many layers."

Adrien's attention trails down, and she can feel it travel over her clothes. The incredulity that flits across his features does nothing for her embarrassment.

"I'm fine," she says firmly.

He doesn't respond, but the skepticism that knits in his brow sends her heart skipping, and Marinette glances over to Alya's seat, seeking distraction. And that's when the reality of their seclusion dawns on her.

"She said she had something important to do." Adrien offers, reading her expression.

She frowns.

"And she didn't wake me?"

"She asked me to," he admits.

Something anxious and exhilarating dips through Marinette's stomach, and she blanches. With impeccable timing, a soft vibration hums against her leg, and she reaches for it. Her insides flip fearfully as she pulls open the text message.

_'You can thank me later.'_

This time, the swear must slip audibly, because Adrien's head snaps up.

"Should I have told her no?" he asks haltingly.

"No, it's okay."

She decided she would talk to him today. She'd grabbed the letter, steeled herself to confront him. If anything, Alya has presented her with a golden opportunity. And _yet_.

Adrien leans against a desk across from her, his hand moving to tug open the top button of his coat. Her eyes follow the movement unwittingly.

_Green turtleneck._

She dismisses the fragment of information disdainfully, dragging her attention away.

"When did class end?"

"Five minutes ago," he says honestly.

Marinette releases a breath, reaching for her bag.

"Ah, wait– "

His hand closes over hers as she touches the strap, and Marinette fights down the absurd mixture of excitement and apprehension that leaps into her throat.

"Let me at least take you home."

"No, that's oka–"

"It's a short walk," he insists.

The collar of his coat is open, and Marinette can see now that the material beneath is a darker green than she had previously thought. It compliments his eyes.

"I'm fine," she repeats.

It's not entirely a lie. She _will_ be fine, once she regains the ability to stand without feeling like her knees are unhinged. She grabs for her bag, and Adrien sweeps it out of her reach, tossing it over his shoulder.

"Then you won't mind if I confirm that for myself?"

There's an underlying cheekiness in his tone that catches her off-guard, and it lifts the corners of his mouth as he moves toward the steps.

"It's only a short walk, right?" he presses.

Uncertainty dips low in Marinette's stomach.

_A golden opportunity._

If she wasn't feeling sick before, she certainly is now.

Adrien has never offered to walk her home before, and a few months ago she would have leapt for joy at the chance.

But a few months ago, she wasn't warring with her own thoughts and feeling loathsome toward her decision-making skills. A few months ago, she wasn't entertaining a late night rendezvous with her partner in her own bedroom.

He pauses at the door, throwing a questioning glance over his shoulder, and Marinette swallows down her pitting indecision.

_I'm going to kill Alya._

___________________________________________________________________________

Marinette has never denied that her imagination can be rampant and idealistic. She knows that she can get caught up in unrealistic expectations, and more than once it has brought disappointment.

But there are some things she never imagined when she envisioned walking home with Adrien Agreste for the first time.

For one, that Adrien would insist they sneak through the back of the school instead of through the front entrance.

Or the way the clouds swell and darken, weeping over the streets in a misty downpour. And like a damning omen, neither of them thought to bring an umbrella. Marinette ducks under her arms as they hurry down the sidewalk, feebly warding off the cold saturation as it soaks through her coat and straight to her bones.

The puddles are too deep for her shoes, and the water soaks into her socks, numbing her feet. Normally the walk is short, but Adrien cuts down the streets and around the building, extending the distance. Marinette tugs her scarf over her nose, burying her face into the soft material against the humid wind.

"Sorry for the detour," Adrien murmurs apologetically.

"Won't your driver be worried?" she asks.

A hint of amusement, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Marinette frowns, "I don't want to get you into trouble."

They pause at an intersection as the overhead streetlight shifts to a luminescent green. Adrien shoves his hands in his pockets, and several, quiet seconds flick by as the rain torrents over them.

A couple passes them, shivering against one another under the shroud of a wide-brimmed umbrella. Marinette's eyes follow them mournfully as they walk by.

"Here."

She feels Adrien shift beside her, shouldering off his coat. She hardly collects a protest before he steps into her side, draping it over her head.

"It's not much," he says ruefully, "But it should at least keep it off your face."

Trepidation flutters against her ribs, and Marinette sucks in a breath, trying to fill the space where it thumps restlessly. This close, she can see the rain water collecting in his lashes, glossing over his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

In comparison, Marinette thinks sullenly, she probably looks like a drowned rat.

"I wouldn't worry."

Her heart leaps uneasily, and for a brief, irrational moment, she fears he heard her thoughts.

"What?"

This time, the amusement is genuine and it curves his lips.

"What you said before – about not wanting me to get into trouble."

Marinette flushes, "Oh."

He takes a step back, his hands sliding back into his pockets, and the pressure in her chest releases by a fraction. Headlights glance off wet cobblestone as the cars rush past, pulling a rush of cold air as they glide by. It glances off the coat's weight, and to Adrien's credit, he's right; it does help.

"I'm fairly good at getting into trouble all on my own."

The glint in his eyes is nothing short of impish, and for a split second, Marinette is gripped by the familiarity.

The light changes, and Adrien takes a halting step forward, his long stride covering several feet before he notices that she doesn't follow him. He casts a long glance over his shoulder, the smile still playing on his lips. It falters briefly.

"Are you okay?"

The trepidation twists again, and this time it isn't butterflies. It's something sharper – more daunting.

"Yeah," she says.

He slows his pace to match her short gait, and Marinette clutches his coat tightly, pulling in another breath as she falls in beside him.

The bakery rises into view as they cross the next block, the familiar shingles sleek with rain water. It streams off the Dupain-Cheng business sign, collecting in a deep puddle that Marinette nearly stumbles into. She ducks past it and straight into Adrien's side, and he releases a deep, warming laugh as she flounders, apologizing.

They linger at the door, staring back at one another for several, long seconds as the water spills onto the concrete at their feet.

"You're soaked," he observes sheepishly.

Marinette releases a short, humorless laugh.

"So are you."

Slow, identical grins split across their faces. After another beat, Marinette starts, reaching around for his coat. It slides from her shoulders heavily, and though she's loathe to part with it, she offers it to him.

Adrien lifts his hands, "No, keep it. You can return it later."

"You need it more than I do," she points out.

He drags a hand through his wet hair, and Marinette's eyes follow the way he shifts, his gaze darting briefly in the direction of the street. Toward the school, where his driver waits.

Her eyes move to the strap slung across his back, where her bag rests against his shoulder blades. She could take it now, go inside, and savor this for what it is – a simple, precious memory she was able to share with him. Just as she's done countless times before.

She can take it at face value and choose to ignore those truths – the ones that loom over her, shadows too great to ignore, but too frightening to face. Continuing as she has every day up to this point, vigilant with the needs of many, but turning a blind eye to her own reality.

_Because it's easier._

To think so was a gross deception.

Telling herself she wasn't lying, that omission is not deceit. Convincing herself that to ignore her own feelings was to drain their value, and they would cease to matter.

The unease from before is still there, but it's hushed, buried under cards that she's already determined to play. There are things she has to say – things that cannot wait any longer, and she knows that. No more missed opportunities, no more excuses.

She can see the resignation in his posture as he turns his attention back to her. The farewell hovers between them, and she catches it on his lips as he parts them.

Marinette forces the question out before she can second-guess it.

"Do you want to come inside for a few minutes and dry off? I have an umbrella that you can use."

The astonishment that passes over his features is earnest, but there's something else there, too. It swiftly sweeps past the surprise and vanishes as he reels in his response.

Anticipation? No, not quite.

"I probably shouldn't."

"Just for a few minutes," she insists, "Long enough to dry off a little."

Again, it's there – fleeting and ambiguous. Adrien assumes a polite smile, and it glimpses under the surface, close enough to nearly pinpoint. The civility is armored in his posture, but there's an uncertainty in his eyes as they slant toward the street again, then up to the bakery sign. Conserved, but indecisive.

Finally, something akin to defeat slackens his shoulders, and Adrien lets her bag slip, swinging it around to offer to her.

"I'm already in trouble, right? I might as well take advantage of it."

The devilish casualty in his expression shouldn't feel so familiar, and neither should his extended hand. But it leaves something tacit and unnerving when their fingers touch, and a rush of something akin to recognition ignites Marinette's insides.

She schools her expression into neutrality as she fishes out her key, her hands trembling as she fumbles with the lock. And when she swings in the door, the bakery's cool exterior welcoming them in from the rain, Marinette cannot restrain the single, painfully clear thought that comes to mind.

_Accomplices._

___________________________________________________________________________

There's a quiet ambiance in the home above the little bakery, where droplets collect on the window panes and patter fitfully over the glass.

Marinette leaves her wet shoes and socks at the door, and Adrien follows suit behind her, the two toeing over the paneling in cold, bare feet. She tries to remain dismissive to his presence ghosting at her shoulder, shadowing her as she walks into the kitchen.

A note is pinned to the fridge in her mother's handwriting, advising that there is food available for reheating and the approximate time her parents should return. She touches the ink, spotted across the paper from hurried strokes, and frowns.

A pair of verdant eyes greet her as she turns around.

"Is everything okay?"

Marinette swallows down the uneasiness that threatens to spill across her expression. She throws open the fridge door, grabbing a few, select ingredients. She deposits her collection on the counter.

She reaches up, tugging her pigtails free. The dark hair falls loose, and she gathers it in her hands, fitting the damp, mussed strands into a low bun.

"This time of year is always busy for my parents, so they'll be gone for a little bit."

She glances up, and Adrien's expression is indistinct, eyes lingering before dropping to the counter.

"Should I…leave?"

Marinette blunders, "Oh, no! It's okay, I just – I mean, we might–"

She flushes, and her gaze falls to the containers in front of her. She reaches for one, fingers fumbling with the packaging on the lid.

"We just might be alone, and I know that might make someone uncomfortable – not me, of course – not to say you wouldn't be comfortable, because it's not like I would try to do anything that would _make_ you uncomfor–"

Marinette's stomach flips as Adrien's hand slides over hers, gently easing the container from her grasp.

The room's atmosphere is muted, toned grey and painting the walls in a dreary light. Shadowed veins on the window panes play across the floorboards, rain water that drips a low backdrop in the otherwise still house.

Adrien gently picks at a corner of the lid, tugging the plastic free until it unwinds in a predetermined snare of packaging. Marinette's eyes follow it, caught and reeled-in by the delicate cut of his pianist fingers – hands too soft, skin too sheltered for a boy his age.

"Here."

He slides it across the counter space between them, a sliver of marble that's far closer than it had seemed before. Marinette takes it gingerly, her face burning.

There's a beat of shared silence that dips low between them, twisting her thoughts into unintelligible, muddled images. It loiters too long, stretching across the counter and thickening in her throat until she can't possibly formulate coherent sentences.

And then Adrien speaks, and the words fall so softly she nearly misses them.

"What?" she chokes.

"I don't mind being alone here," he utters, "If you don't."

A bead of saturation falls from his fringe, sliding down the line of his jaw. Marinette's gaze follows it, her pulse skipping unevenly.

His lips lift in a small, dangerous smile, sending a thrilling jolt of hesitancy through her nerves. It's unimaginable, how the smallest gestures have become so alarmingly charged in her mind, colored with intentions that may not even be his.

And _yet_.

"I'll get you a towel," she blurts.

Bemusement flits across Adrien's expression as she dashes from the room.

Marinette throws her back against the bathroom door, burying her face in her hands. A mortified heat crawls up her neck, spreading in a tomato red flush across her cheeks.

She should have taken her parents' absence into account before inviting him in. But she's grown a penchant for reckless decisions in her recent time with Chat, and it's an influence she does not find appealing in situations such as this.

His eyes were so sad when he looked toward the school, and she could feel the letter weighing on her even when it was bouncing between his shoulder blades.

She hadn't been rational; if her past record is any indication, she has a fault with thinking clearly when attractive boys are involved.

Which is _not_ to suggest that Chat Noir is attractive – that's an omission she wouldn't dare voice.

Marinette sucks in a deep breath, crossing to the sink. The water runs cold against her skin, and she splashes it on her face, fighting back the absurd urge to stick her head under the faucet. After standing in the rain, it wouldn't make much of a difference now.

When her phone hums against her leg, Marinette starts, shoving a hand into her pocket.

**_[ Are you doing okay? ]_ **

The contact initials ' **C.N.** ' stand out, blaringly sharp – and even before the message, they're the first to catch her gaze. Marinette peers at the short sentence, something uncertain and rueful twisting her insides.

She determined not to speak to him, promised herself she wouldn't encourage anything before she'd sorted out her feelings. But the temptation to confide in him, to respond, is more pressing than she anticipated.

Three little dots bounce on the screen before disappearing.

**_[ You can talk to me. ]_ **

She stares for a minute too long, fingers hovering over the screen, _rationalizing_. He's still her friend, though it's an argument she has repeatedly nullified through actions. Confiding in him couldn't possibly lead to anything disastrous – it's not as though he's _here_.

**_[ I promise I won't tell ;) ]_ **

_Incorrigible._

Marinette catches her lip, her chest tightening.

**_{ I'm taking your advice. }_ **

A pause. It stretches languidly for several, painful seconds, before the little dots appear again.

**_[ Oh? ]_ **

She leans against the sink, deleting and rewriting. The words feel awkward, even on text.

**_{ …I'm not very good at it. }_ **

**_[ Do you need help? ]_ **

She grimaces.

**_{ I don't – }_ **

When her phone rings, her pulse nearly leaps out of her skin. She fumbles, swiping the screen.

"I didn't think you'd answer," Chat admits.

Marinette cups a hand over her mouth, glancing timidly toward the door.

"Well, I didn't think I had much of a choice; you probably would have kept calling."

She expects a mildly offended quip, or something flirtatious. But instead, he doesn't answer at all, and the quiet that fills that space is unnerving. Marinette opens her mouth, but his voice returns, softer than before.

"Is your prince there now?"

She casts another look at the door, pitching her voice low.

"Yes," she concedes.

"What's the plan?"

"Well, Chat, if I had a plan I wouldn't be hiding in the bathroom."

She can _hear_ the smile in his voice.

"When I run out of plans, the bathroom is my first choice, too."

Her thoughts hiccup, jumping back to the last time they were together. He has an astounding talent for drawing every conversation they have to memories she fights blatantly to suppress, and a ten second phone call is no exception.

Marinette touches her cheek, as though she can contain the prickling exasperation that warms it. She wets her lips, forcing out a change of topic.

"I wrote a letter."

She can hear his intake of breath, the tap of water against porcelain as the sink drips behind her.

"What does it say?" he asks gently.

Marinette sighs, "Everything I've been afraid of saying out loud."

There's a beat that passes, and fills her lungs until it's unbearable, breaking the unusual pause as she releases it harshly.

"It's stupid–"

"No, tell me."

There's something in his tone that keens, drawing her attention.

"Chat–"

"Pretend I'm him," he murmurs.

She laughs, catching it anxiously as she realizes Adrien might hear.

"That's crazy," she says.

Marinette can hear her own voice, in her room over a week before. Speaking on the phone with him like this, in the very late hours of the evening.

"No, it's not." Chat says.

It's different this time.

"Just pretend for a second," he whispers, "That we are the same person."

Her chest squeezes.

"You're not–"

"I'm Adrien."

His voice is hushed, but there's a trepidation that lingers on the line. It pulls taut like a bowstring, unraveling her train of thought.

"Tell me," he repeats.

Something akin to apprehension clenches Marinette's stomach, and she desperately shoves it down, _rationalizing_.

"You know I can't talk when I'm around him." she says, voice uneven.

"Then this is fine," Chat urges, "Because deep down you know it's just me."

_Incorrigible._

"If I stay in here any longer, he's going to think I'm doing something weird."

Amusement colors his tone, "I'm sure he'll understand."

It could be the way he talks to her – the way he's _always_ talked to her – that tugs at the knots inside her. Unwinding them, drawing her into a grudging sense of ease that can only been explained away by time and companionship.

Or, it could be the mirth in his voice, bristling her competitive urge to best him.

"Okay, _Adrien_ ," she says lowly, "I don't have the letter on hand."

"Improvise."

There are few things Marinette is incapable of, but recalling a letter she freehanded while half-conscious in the dead hours of the morning is one of them. As though sensing this from the dense pause that follows, Chat clears his throat.

"Do you remember the conversation we had when I came over that night, a while back?"

"Which one?" she deadpans.

His laugh is short, almost restrained.

"You told me about how you felt about m– …ah, Adrien. You talked about the plant, and watering your feelings."

Marinette flusters, "That was–"

"Really cute."

The compliment shouldn't warm her the way it does, but he's not here to see it, so it doesn't really matter.

"You should tell him that," Chat continues, "Tell him that you think he's– ah…"

"Cute?" she offers quietly.

The silence that lingers is almost thick enough for her to fit inside of.

"Yes," he says.

Marinette averts her eyes to the tiling.

"What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

An abrupt bang cuts through the house, clattering through the wall, and Marinette startles. There's shuffling from the kitchen, and it's so loud she nearly swears she can hear it through the phone.

"Hold on," she utters.

The noise cuts short as she ducks into the other room, shoving her cell in her pocket. Adrien slides onto his seat, his hands politely clasped on the counter in front of him.

"Sorry, the stool… fell over."

Marinette's gaze shifts from his disheveled, damp appearance to the aforementioned stool. He smiles tightly as his arm comes up, cheek resting against his palm in forced casualty.

"Is everything okay?" he ventures.

The embarrassment returns abruptly as she recognizes how long she's already been gone under the guise of a menial chore.

"Yeah, I'm just… having a hard time finding a towel. They must be dirty."

Adrien's eyebrows lift a fraction, "Do you need any help?"

"No!" she says quickly.

They stare at one another, Marinette's hand lingering over the phone's outline against her leg. His gaze flits to it for a half second, cutting away so swiftly it could be missed.

"Well, if you need anything," he remarks, "I'm here."

_"I'm sure he'll understand."_

"I'll be right back," Marinette says unevenly.

The restroom shouldn't feel like a safe room, and she shouldn't be seeking whispered relationship advice from Chat Noir – but things have been a lot more unusual, and at this point she's lost the will to question it.

She pulls herself up onto the counter, back to the mirror and feet dangling over the tiling. When she fishes her phone back out, she's mildly surprised to see the numbers still ticking by.

"If you _need_ anything, I'm _here_ ," Chat recites sardonically.

"Oh, shut up. He's sweet."

"He's an idiot," the boy observes.

Despite his words, there's no malice in his tone. There's something unnervingly tongue-in-cheek, and she can't put her finger on it.

"Look, I can't just sit on the phone in here. Should I hand him the letter?"

"No! I mean, yes, but…" he clears his throat, "He'd probably like it if you just told him–"

"We've already established that I can't just pour out my feelings like a love-sick little girl. I'm not _you_ , Chat."

"Excuse you, mademoiselle," Chat Noir says, somewhat appalled, "I don't just pour my feelings out – I _deliver_ them."

Marinette presses her lips into a thin line, restraining the smile that threatens to steal across her face.

"Okay, delivery boy. Back to square one: What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

This time there isn't a crash, no loud interruption to cut her thoughts from the anxiety of the concept. And she can hear the breath he pulls in.

"He'd be an idiot not to."

"Chat–"

"And if he doesn't, then…"

Another inhale. This one is quaking, and it squirms under her skin, humming in her temple. Like the quivering, thunderous purrs that exude from him in severed proximity. Or the words that hover in her bedroom during their late night excursions, unsaid and held carefully under lock and key.

_I will._

He doesn't have to speak them into existence – they're already there.

"The prince always kisses the princess in the stories, you know."

_You're not a prince_ , she wants to say.

But she's beginning to have a hard time discerning the difference, and this interaction is rapidly spiraling down another steep path of memories that _shouldn't_ be visited and scenarios that _shouldn't_ be explored.

So instead, she swallows down the lump in her throat, pulling together something resembling composure.

"I have to go," she says.

He responds with a quiet affirmation, and there's a swinging pendulum in that hush, fat with understanding that neither one dares to voice.

Marinette taps the screen, shoving the device across the counter.

As though keeping it out of sight will fix everything. Or at the very least, stowing it away will ease some of the pressure in her head.

She can hear it buzz softly, and she knows he's texted her. But there's a part of her that feels to look would be an admission of something she's buried too far down to confront. And today is already encumbered with enough confessions to drain the last of her courage.

A stack of towels glower at her from their perch on the shelf adjacent to the sink. Marinette fixes them with a withering look as she gathers them into her arms.

The linen tickles her nose, and she feels for the doorknob blindly, barely managing to twist it before it sweeps open under her hand. Her face plows straight into an obstruction, towels tumbling over her arms and across the floor.

"Oh, shi–"

She feels a hand on her shoulder, his voice a head above her as he reaches out, grabbing for one of the towels. Marinette chokes on her heartbeat, slamming against her ribs in an uneven drumline.

"I'm sorry, really–"

"It's okay," she assures.

She dips down, scooping the linens up haphazardly. She doesn't even realize that he's joined her until she sees his hands, those same pianist fingers, closing over the fabric at her feet.

"I was, ah… going to check on you," he admits.

Apprehension cuts through Marinette's thoughts. Did he hear her on the phone?

_Oh, God._

"I should have stayed in the kitchen," Adrien says sheepishly, "But I just– I didn't–"

Her eyes lift tentatively, noting his downcast features, the growing mass of towels draped across his arm. His cheeks are flushed – lips, a perfect cupid's bow, stammering uncertainly.

"No, it's alright. I shouldn't have just left you by yourself."

A whisper of guilt gnaws at her insides, urging the next words to spill from her mouth.

"I had to make a phone call," she confesses.

He looks up.

"Oh."

"I know it was rude–"

"No," he says quickly, "I, ah… I needed to make a phone call, too."

Her mind flicks back to the clamor from before.

_Was it bad news?_

Adrien leans forward, snatching up the last towel from the floor. Her eyes follow it, head lifting as she notes their proximity.

It takes her back to a nearly identical encounter in front of the school, two hands reaching for the same magazine. Their heads bumping, followed by self-conscious smiles. It seems like a different lifetime.

The seconds mature into a minute, extending languidly in the quiet hallway. And what before may have been a childish exchange now feels undeniably aged, teeming with a bout of tension she hadn't even realized had been present.

Absurdly, she feels as though there was never a door separating them at all.

"You look cold," he remarks.

There's something expectant in his gaze, and it glides down Marinette's spine, settling in the pit of her stomach.

"Do I?" she says softly.

The irrationality of the situation – the nearness – is an ambiguous thought at the back of her head. If they were talking about something before, it has escaped her entirely.

She vaguely registers the towel he pulls off his arm, the way his hands lift in the corners of her vision. But she doesn't miss the graze of his palm as he curtains it over her, or the soft brush of the material on her cheeks.

"Better?"

There's an undefinable line between when their knees weren't touching and now, and Marinette can't find it. But she can distinguish the way the light from the bathroom falls across Adrien's features, throwing every cut and line of his figure into shadows that she hadn't thought to trace before. But now her hands ache to follow them, and she knows it'll haunt the pages of her sketchbook for the next several weeks.

Marinette mirrors his movements, tugging a towel free of her armful. She leans forward, tossing it over his crown of damp, blonde hair. As though the scent of his cologne mixed with rain wasn't already enough to make her delirious, she can feel his breath on her chin.

_Mint._

"Now it is," she says.

As she pulls back, his posture falls, and she's suddenly, unbearably aware of the way his gaze drops. It's almost tangible, the way his exhale lingers on her lips, and his eyes shutter as she breathes it in.

It shouldn't leave her aching, drawn into his gravity, feeling as though she might plunge out of orbit.

There's a sense from before, the feeling that upheaves her rationality and chases away her train of thought, that ghosts over her. That she's been here before – that she's felt these hands, even though Adrien has never been less than an arms-length away. That these eyes have watched her, hooded under model-thick lashes and gazing back from behind the dark recesses of a mask.

That she's heard this voice, low and velvety and whispering…

"Marinette."

Her name is warm on his lips, and she can nearly taste it with the peppermint. The dread that grips her is staggering.

She's not sure when she ended up half in his lap, arms looped over his shoulders, blonde hair and towel equally entangled in her hands. But Marinette tears herself away, wrenching to her feet.

"I told you I would let you borrow my umbrella," she says suddenly.

His eyes follow her as she crosses toward the kitchen, climbing to his feet on tremulous legs.

"That's oka–"

"I don't want to get you into any more trouble, and I'm sure your driver is waiting for you."

There's something uneasy and terrible that snarls inside of her, twisting tightly as she hears his footfalls behind her.

"Marinette, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have–"

That _voice_. God, why does it have to sound so–

"Don't worry about it," she says firmly, snatching up her bag.

He's standing a pace away, brows drawn low over those beautiful eyes, crinkled with concern. Marinette evades them, tugging her zipper open forcefully. She thrusts her hand into it, pulling free an envelope worn from worried creasing.

She can feel Adrien's gaze fall on it, heavy and _knowing_. It's suffocating, and she pointedly avoids it, shoving the letter into his satchel with shaking hands.

"Here, I'll get the umbrella."

Somewhere, the part of her brain that can handle information in a composed, lucid way has short-circuited. And that quiet portion of her head knows what this looks like to him – what she's doing right now.

Panicking, desperately trying to shove down every tendril of conviction that's bubbling up inside of her.

The umbrella isn't really hers. The scripted initials on the inside are small enough to overlook, but she knows they're there, even without looking. She's memorized their curves on many rainy days, inwardly abstaining from returning it to the owner.

**_A.A._ **

"Marinette," he says again.

His voice is at her shoulder, hushed and apologetic. When she turns around, pressing it into his chest, she can see the satchel folded under his arm.

"You don't have to return it," she says, voice wavering, "It was yours to begin with."

Was he always taller than her? It feels as though he's at least grown an inch – or maybe it's that she feels so small standing next to him.

"Can we talk about this? Let me apologize–"

"You don't need to," Marinette chokes.

He lifts his arm, hand dipping into the bag's open mouth.

"I can look at this and we can at least–"

Fear spikes through her, and Marinette's hands fly out, casing his. Desperately shoving it down.

"No, not here–"

"It'll be okay! You'll see–"

Their fingers tangle, wrestling the letter back into the bag, and the strap falls from his shoulder. Marinette's heart plummets as the contents drop.

Pens and gum, assorted notes and the envelope, spilling to the floor.

And across her feet, something soft. Something dark and familiar, that her hands would know more intimately than anyone.

The silence that blankets the hall is deafening, pounding in her chest, hard and erratic. Neither one of them move, Marinette's thoughts hopping and skipping fitfully as she stares down at the scarf.

_"I'm sure he'll understand."_

"Adrien," she undertones, "Where did you get this?"

She doesn't want to hear the answer. But she can see his feet shift in front of her, hear the air suck in between his teeth, and she can feel herself looking over the edge. Watching a catastrophe as it unfolds, a car crash at the moment of impact, and she can't pull her eyes away.

And like before, it's a pendulum swinging heavily, words that already hold enough meaning between them without needing to be voiced.

But he says it anyway.

"It's mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_I'm still alive! (Can you believe Season 2 is here?!)_ **
> 
> **_I apologize for my absence.  
>  I've had a lot of things in my life go wrong within the last few months, and I probably rewrote this chapter 2-3 times before I finally reached a version I could live with. Luckily, I have amazing readers who are understanding and patient. If it wasn't for your steadfast enthusiasm, I couldn't stay motivated._ **
> 
> **_Your reviews water my crops and clear my skin. Bless each one of you._ **

**Author's Note:**

> (Feedback is appreciated!)


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